Beyond the Winding Road
by Emori Loul
Summary: Post series. One hundred years have passed in a world full of life, color, and stories. It's time again for some familiar faces to join it.
1. Advance I: Velveteen

I've never really written fanfiction for the fandom before, and my thoughts are right now as scattered as the wind, so if this is a mess, be critical but be gentle.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance I: ~Velveteen~_

"That's right, sonny. You'll make a fine clerk in no time. The greener's thumb, you have."

"Thank you, Mr. West."

Beep-Beep.

"That'll be 24.99€, sir—oh. Sir, don't forget your change!"

"Why thank you, young man."

"Next, please!"

"Now Oz—" Clacking, an accidentally dropped pen. "—this next customer has an orange tree. What's our procedure?"

"…They'll be needing help getting it into their car, Mr. West. But I—"

"Correct, boy!"

"Speaking of cars, sir, would you like us to help you to yours?"

"To mine, Oz?"—a flinch—"But I have a business to run! Don't go counting me out yet, sonny!" Boisterous laughter.

The click of heels. The slam of a hand on wood. "Do you need some help, _sir?"_

A young woman of pale skin and hair stood across the counter, palm angrily slapped against its surface, movement demanding the attention of the man next to the clerk. Next to her, the current customer—holding only a pot of satin lunarias—moved confusedly aside to give her some room.

The man her agression was directed towards, ancient and wrinkled and in a wheelchair but nonetheless lively of expression, nearly jumped. "Help? From you, terrorizer?"

The clerk next to him shot a sympathetic look to the young woman and sighed. "Mr. West, Hedia's right. Would you like us to call your family for you?"

Mr. West turned away from the pale girl and focused on the clerk. "Why on earth would I need them right now? Oz, honestly—" he continued, not noticing the boy flinch again "—sometimes you're very confusing."

"Mr. West, it's Lewis," the clerk corrected with all the airs of someone who'd said this a thousand times. "And it probably would be best if you let your family know where you are." Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis saw a whip of white hair and knew Hedia was going for the phone. "I'm sure they're expecting you."

"Expecting me?" Suddenly the man seemed to lose his certainty over where he should be. "Expecting me… yes, perhaps…" He lifted his left wrist to his face to glance at his watch, furrowed his eyebrows, and asked Lewis, "What time is it?"

"Late, Mr. West," the boy replied.

"Ah, yes, well then." Mr. West puffed up his chest as importantly as he could from his wheelchair. "I'll be taking home some Veronicas for my wife, and will leave closing up to you, Oz. Make sure you get the terrorizer out of here before you close up, though—you trust her too much."

"Would you like someone to walk you to your car, sir?" Lewis bit his lip, glancing apologetically at the customers still waiting in line. Most of them just smiled forgivingly. He glanced at the nearest glass wall instead. "It looks like rain. Hedia, can you get me an umbrella?"

A bell at the front rang as the entrance of the conservatory opened.

"Lewis?" he heard Hedia call.

"It's alright, you two, I can help him out," reassured the newcomer. Missus Hektor stood in the entranceway, leaning on the conservatory door with one glove-covered hand on the glass, another wrapped around the plastic handle of her dampened black umbrella. Hedia crouched off to her side at the umbrella stand, poised as if uncertain what she should be doing.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hektor," Lewis replied, knowing Hedia was probably uncomfortable with talking—and indeed, had now gone back to manning the register. "I hope it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all," she said. "It's what I'm here for."

She smiled at him, her earthy dark skin making the whites of her eyes twinkle, and pushed on the door until it opened, stretching her arm as the little man she had promised to help rumbled his squat electric wheelchair through the entranceway and out onto the covered patio.

"Phillipe," she called after him, "I'll be driving you home."

Once Mr. West was around the corner, she said in a more hushed tone, "I'm sorry he's been giving you trouble. His granddaughter called me and told me about him turning up here four times this morning already. She and I ask for your forgiveness; we can't find where he keeps hiding his keys to stop him from driving."

Lewis shrugged, smiling uncomfortably. "He's not a problem, really."

"Perhaps," Mrs. Hektor replied sternly, in a tone that said she doubted it, "but you're fifteen, Lewis. You should not have to watch out for a senile old man all day, not with as many problems as he has."

He avoided her eyes. "Mr. West isn't that bad." Truth be told, Lewis felt sorry for him. He had lived to see over a century of birthdays, a remarkable achievement for anyone, but he had such a severe case of Alzheimer's he was no longer quite able to remember what year it was, let alone that the conservatory no longer belonged to him. While Mr. West was often confused and sometimes even hallucinating, Lewis knew he was harmless. Really, Lewis' only problem with Mr. West was that he continuously referred to him as "Oz."

Mrs. Hektor sighed. "Please call one of us if this happens again."

"We were going to."

"I'm sure," she muttered. He smiled cheekily at her, and she scoffed.

By the time the pleasantries were finished and Missus Hektor had left with Mr. West, Hedia had already cleared most of the customers' purchases. Checking his watch, Lewis found that it was indeed almost time to close, as he announced to all those still browsing the rows of flora.

Finally, Lewis and Hedia closed up shop and began locking the conservatory, Lewis taking the right wing and Hedia the left, and when finished they met up at the register.

"You lock the front on your way out," he called to her from across the room, shutting off the lights as she gathered her items on the register counter back into her purse. "I'll lock the back. I've got to return the clay pots Mr. West moved back to the shed anyways. Just leave the keys with Andy when you see him."

She turned to him, lips curled and cheeks slightly puffed in concern. "Be careful when you leave. There was a strange man still in the subtropical section when Eh-I went to lock it." There went Hedia's odd nervous tick again. "Don't know how he missed our closing notice."

"Strange?" Lewis reiterated offhandedly, counting the number of pots Mr. West had somehow managed to displace.

Hedia nodded, her white bangs bobbing against her forehead. "He kept staring. He had eyes like those crazy people you always see in those movies about asylums, all too-wide and disbelieving at everything. And he had mismatching eyes, too; one red and one gold, so it made his expression look even stranger." Despite the fact that she seemed so disturbed by the man, Hedia's voice seemed to sadden at the end.

Lewis visibly froze. "A red eye?"

As if trying to judge his reaction, Hedia nodded again slowly—although it proved pointless, since Lewis was neither looking at her nor truly listening. "Something wrong?"

Lewis seemed to come back to himself, realizing that he had absentmindedly put a hand over his own right eye. "Wha-? Oh, no, I just… never mind."

Giving him one more judging look, Hedia and he exchanged goodbyes and she departed.

Lewis, now that there was no cute girl watching, went back to struggling with the pots. "How does a hundred year old man in a wheelchair pick up and move so many twenty pound pots?" he muttered (pouted), nesting two terracotta vessels inside each other and carrying them out the back. "And the shed is like, a foot off the ground!"

He trudged over to the shed and put the pots down on the steps, then unlocked the heavy barn-style doors. Grabbing the pots once more, he slipped inside.

As the storage area for Le Panier de Fleurs, his mother's conservatory-come-flowershop, the shed was always packed with horticultural paraphernalia. Even way back when their house and shop had been a summer home for the now-extinct Barma family to get away from the mainland, the shed had belonged to the head gardener—and Lewis was of the personal belief that, from how old many of the items looked, he'd never come back to reclaim his things.

Lewis dropped off the pots and returned to the back door—or attempted to.

And that was when he saw the man. It was that simple.

This was the man Hedia had spoken of, there was no doubt in Lewis' mind of that. He wore a nice dress suit, and although the fabric looked new Lewis noticed it wasn't cut like modern suits. Instead of emphasizing a masculine broad chest as the sometimes unflattering designs of modern-day did, his seemed deliberately made to highlight how graceful his figure was. This almost feminine appearance was not helped by his flowing blonde hair or dangling bejeweled earrings.

He indeed had piercing eyes, one red and one gold, although they didn't look nearly as disturbing to Lewis as they apparently did to Hedia. They didn't just look normal to Lewis—which was strange, because it had been a long time since he had met someone else with red eyes—they looked entirely familiar.

"Vincent." Lewis said aloud. The man said nothing, but he cocked his head and looked at him, as if wondering exactly what it was he saw. "You're Vincent, aren't you?"

The man waited a few moments before speaking. "Gil's waiting."

Lewis nodded, a soft smile growing on his face. He knew that much, at least. And more and more every minute.

Vincent crossed the remaining distance, and in an action that completely wiped the smile off Lewis' face, grabbed him by the chin.

There was a moment of silence.

"Appropriate. Honestly, we should have expected it. Reincarnations aren't supposed to keep their memories, but those with our eyes have never followed the rules."

Vincent let go of Lewis' jaw, finally. Pouting and puffing up his cheeks, the boy rubbed his face where he'd been grabbed.

"I suppose I shall need to speak with your… family."

Lewis was silent for a moment, considering. Then, to his guest's total surprise, he looked up and grinned mischievously at him. "Yes, Vincent," he sang, "that's what you do when you plan on taking away their child for whoever knows how long~"

"…Congratulations on somehow getting _more_ annoying while you were gone," Vincent grumbled back. He began walking towards the gravel parking lot, now making a conscious effort to keep a few feet away from his smaller companion.

Seeing the world through rose-colored eyes and laughing more clearly than Oz had in decades, Lewis began to follow.

"…Oh, wait, shoot! Vincent, wait! I still have to lock up!"

A loud groan was all he got in response.

* * *

AN: Well, with PH ending like that, what did you expect? The path ahead is literally open for anything! (Except for Vincent; sorry Vincent). This won't really be a _story_ story, but more like a bunch of little snippets whenever I get the inspiration. I'm probably next going to write about how Vincent and Oz went and collected Alice, and then I'll be free from the bonds of canon to write whatever I want about these characters! No one can stop me! *evil laugh*

I had fun bouncing ideas off Ryoura on tumblr; they're awesome! Although I don't have a tumblr and honestly tumblr confuses me, so I did it anonymously. So shout out to them and my fellow anons for helping me build a more detailed Modern setting!

Detail notes (more will be added at the end of every Advance):

*Modern!Oz's name, Lewis Tale, comes from both Lewis Carroll and C.S. Lewis, the latter of whom wrote the Narnia series. Like Pandora Hearts, Narnia features a magical dimension that warps time and space and is later revealed to have connections with the afterlife. The name Tale was originally a discarded possible name for Oz in the early drafts of Pandora Hearts, but why discard when you can recycle? Appropriately for a family named "Tale," every family member's name is a reference to a famous author. We'll be meeting them in the Adcances ahead.

*Though not mentioned by name, his mother's name is Beatrix, a reference to Beatrix Potter, the author of the _Peter Rabbit_ series as well as many other fairy tales.

*_Le Panier de Fleurs_ or "The Basket of Flowers," is the name of Beatrix's flower shop, but also the translated French name of _Das Blumenkörbchen_, an early 19th century book by Christoph von Schmid, who is considered by many to be the father of children's literature. Originally I planned the shop's name to be the original German title, but the society of Pandora Hearts seems to have more French influence than German.

*Modern!Echo's name is "Hedia Aidas," Hebrew for "Echo of God" ad Lithuanian for "Echo" respectively. Because I'm hilarious. I know that some people said she can't be reincarnated because she's a Chain, but Oz got reincarnated and so is he *sticks out tongue* Anyways, if you didn't catch on, her nervous tick "E-I" is her almost reverting to calling herself "Echo," even though she has no idea why she would even do that.


	2. Advance II: Matryoshka

Hope I managed to keep everyone in character here. There's one more Advance that sort of acts as a conclusion to this one, in which Lewis/Oz prepares to leave to find Gil, and then we're moving on to meeting Alice again.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance II: ~Matryoshka~_

Lewis didn't have to direct Vincent very far in his Mercedes to get them to Lewis' house—which, to Lewis' great amusement, Vincent looked very grateful for.

"Gosh, Vincent," he said at one point, all wide-eyed and innocent. "You've been around since the automobile's invention. I'm sure you're just the absolute best driver!"

The face Vincent made had been priceless, although the comment cost Lewis any conversation that wasn't muffled by silent loathing until they reached the house. Luckily this took barely any time at all, since the house and the conservatory were on the same (admittedly expansive) property.

His mother's shop was an old converted Dukian* conservatory tried and tested by the years, and from the moment she had seen it she'd been in love with it. And despite his concerns over the house being in constant need of repairs from age, or how he could have bought a newer, larger one for a fourth of the price, or how both his boys would have to travel longer on the weekends to get home from their private school, his father Richard had bought the conservatory and the old manor whose grounds it was on from Mr. West. After all, Richard knew that his family knew his complaints were just for show anyways; he had the money and was as interested in history and antiques as Lewis himself (though Lewis' interest also had more…personal reasons in the mix).

His mother Beatrix had gotten to work right away, directing renovations and adding details to make it a functioning flower shop. It had been her dream as a child, and both her sons were eager to participate if it made her smile. By their teenage years, both boys were well acquainted with the tasks of gardening and managing the shop, as well as with the routine customers. And while Lewis himself didn't have any particular interest in flowers outside of his mother's happiness, his brother Anderson, when stressed, had been known to escape his room for the comforts of the empty conservatory at night.

But despite the conservatory's many renovations, the manor it belonged to looked very much the same as it had in its heyday. Lewis could attest to that personally.

Vincent seemed interested himself in how Lewis was living in an old Barma mansion, if his stunned expression when they pulled into the carport was any indication.

"My Dad works at the Carillon Development Corporation. Senior general manager under the CEO. Mom liked the conservatory, we needed a house, and Dad had the money." Lewis shrugged. "I'll admit, though, calling this place home at first—before I got back enough to explain it—was… bizarre. Reim once brought us here for the night, since the sorcerer with the second sealing stone lived in the woods around here." Lewis gestured absently with his hand as he spoke.

What he didn't say, though, was that the manor's appearance was so unchanged from how it had been that it had triggered one of the first memories he'd gotten back, and he'd been so confused by the alien thoughts and emotions that he hadn't slept for days after.

Vincent nodded anyways as if what he had said explained everything, and cast a glance into the woods towards where the old sorcerer's house had been. Lewis didn't miss this, but he didn't comment either. He'd always had his suspicions, but there was no point in bringing them up now.

"Are we going to tell them the truth, or what happened?" Vincent finally said. Lewis understood. They were not always the same thing.

"The truth," Lewis responded. "They are my family."

Vincent made to get out of the car, but Lewis grabbed his hand as he reached to unbuckle his seat belt.

"Why aren't you at Leo's side?"

Vincent lessened his grip on the buckle, looked down, and then back up again, straight into Lewis' eyes. "That's a bit of an impossibility now."

Lewis nodded, unbuckled his own seat belt, and got out of the car.

* * *

Lewis' mother greeted them at the doorway. She was a remarkably small blonde woman who looked very much like she wanted to run and embrace her son, but one look at Vincent had her more worried than physically affectionate.

"Dear, why didn't you call and tell me you'd be getting home so late?" she asked, letting them into the house. Then, "Who's he?" she added in whisper when Vincent was looking at some paintings on the walls.

"Mom," Lewis said louder, drawing Vincent's attention. "This is Vincent. He's… someone I've known for a very long time. Vincent, this is my mom, Beatrix." At his mother's look, he added meaningfully, "I think it's best we wait for Dad and Anderson to get here before we discuss this more."

His mother's blonde eyebrows shot straight up, and her eyes shifted from her son to their guest and back rapidly. "Oh…kay." She cleared her throat, turning to their guest. "So, how old are you, Vincent?"

Vincent gave her his patented zero-sincerity smile, but she didn't seem to notice. "Ninteen, Ma'am."

She nodded and turned back to her son. "Well, if there's anything you want to tell me, dear," Here, her gaze fixed on the deeps of her son's watermelon eyes, "know that I'll always love and support you."

Lewis smiled back, and when she turned to leave, he hugged her.

"Oh!" she laughed. "Honestly, I don't know why all the other kids your age think they're too cool for showing affection nowadays." She smiled brightly, returning the hug.

After a few minutes of them hugging and Vincent standing in the hallway like an awkward piece of furniture, she withdrew and announced, "Well, I'll just go set out some snacks for you and your friend, okay?" She turned to smile at Vincent welcomingly, which he returned (again with far less sincerity), and then busily retired through a door leading to the kitchen, shooting her son a final furtive grin and thumbs-up before the door closed.

When she left, Vincent's face fell into a scowl. "I do believe she thinks we're together," he finally said.

Lewis' smile went wonky before dropping completely off his face and being replaced by a massive blush and a weary hand over his eyes. "Yeah, I got that impression too."

Vincent walked closer to the paintings he had been inspecting earlier. "You have portraits of yourself? Rather tactless, that."

Lewis shrugged, approaching the paintings himself. Likenesses of Oz and Ada Vessalius, Sharon Rainsworth, and all the Nightray children littered the wall. "They were left here, and Mr. West—he's the previous owner—never got rid of them. He actually added more, I think; he still really likes me, for some reason." Lewis sighed. The paintings around the house had done a lot to spark his memories. "What I want to know is when and why Duke Barma had portraitures made of all of us and kept them in his holiday home's entrance hall."

Vincent snorted. "Barma hid it well, but he was a sentimental old fool." Despite his harsh words, Lewis would have sworn there was respect in his voice.

"To be honest, Vincent, I'd be less concerned with how tactless I look and more concerned with the fact that that's your face on a hundred-year-old painting." Lewis shrugged. "But I guess it doesn't matter."

The doorbell rang.

"That'll be Dad and Anderson," Lewis said, heading for the door. Opening it revealed a man with slicked hair and a business suit—and only a man with slicked hair and a business suit.

"Hey Dad," Lewis greeted, and immediately received a hair musing at his father's hands.

"Hello, Lewis," said the man, with one of the gentlest voices Vincent had ever heard come out of a human mouth. "And how was your Saturday?"

"Good," Lewis replied, now struggling to get his hair back to its normal slightly less mussed state of being. "Where's Anderson?"

"He's staying at school again this weekend; he says he needs to study for an exam on Monday."

Lewis suddenly looked much less exuberant. "Oh." He glanced at Vincent for a few seconds, then sighed. "I guess we can't do this all together after all, then."

"Hmm?"

"Uh, Dad?" Lewis asked, and his father's eyes widened slightly at his hesitance.

"Yes?"

"Uh, could you go get Mom and meet me in the family room? We need to, um, talk."

His father stared at him in the eyes for a good minute as if trying to read his thoughts, then shrugged. "Alright, then. We'll be in the family room when you're ready. Where's your mom?"

Lewis looked slightly less stressed. "Kitchen, I think."

"Thanks, bud. Well, see you in there."

He waved behind him as he walked through the door, and Lewis released a huge amount of air from his lungs.

Vincent regarded his reaction skeptically. "I think that went better. At least he isn't immediately assuming we're gay."

"You're really stuck on that, aren't you? My, did my mom touch a nerve~?"

"Being assumed gay isn't the least bit upsetting. Being assumed gay with _you, _on the other hand…"

"Ouch, Vincent~!' the boy whined teasingly back. "That both hurt and grievously offended me!"

"Exactly."

"Besides, I could get a better boyfriend than you any day, if I wanted~"

But Vincent, much to Lewis' disappointment, didn't bite back that time.

A quiet lull descended on them, allowing a break in which bad thoughts could seep through.

"What if they—" Lewis' voice faltered. His eyes trailed up to his own portrait.

Or, rather, what used to be his portrait. May have been his portrait? Lewis frequently wasn't even sure himself. He sometimes even now—though more frequently when he was a child—forgot his modern name, becoming unaware when people were addressing him. Other times, the very existence of Oz Vessalius seemed like a strange childhood dream.

Now and then it seemed that he was either Lewis Tale _or_ Oz, but now that he had confirmation that it was all real after all, as long as there were people he loved who didn't know both, that division was ever-present in every word spoken and every gesture made.

He had worked too hard to be _here_ to be caught between the present and the past. Of course he had to tell them.

(But old fears long buried were emerging tonight. _"A child like that should never have been born."_)

How would they react finally knowing they had someone like him for a son?

Vincent watched every emotion flicker upon his face, and, in a rare moment of compassion, put a hand to his shoulder and gave him a light push.

"Come on," he said. "The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get to Gilbert. And the sooner you'll realize there's no reason for your panic attack."

They went through the door into the room where his family was waiting.

* * *

"Alright," Lewis said. Or rather, Oz said. It was always Oz that was better at dealing with crisis. "Alright, so—so, um, there's something I've," he took a deep breath, "I've needed to tell you about for a long time."

Beatrix and Richard, sitting on the crème sofa, glanced at each other and then back at him. His mother also shot a glance over at Vincent, who was leaning against the silver-glit wallpaper and stubbornly remaining near the door.

"Bud," Richard began, as if trying to coax to an easily spooked hare, "You know we love you no matter what. Has something else happened?"

Lewis winced but honestly couldn't blame them for assuming such things. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd suddenly become unable to recognize anyone and caused a scene, mistaking everyone in the house for strangely-dressed servants or guests of one noble house or another (usually Duke Barma's, considering where they now lived).

"No," he said, slightly less confidently. The skin between his eyebrows and nose pinched together in anxiety. "I mean, _yes_, but—not like that." He took another deep breath. Words would not prove anything; no matter how much they loved him—and he knew they did, or thought they did—because they likely already thought him mad.

"This is your son."

His parents' heads jerked around to land their eyes on Vincent, who was busily tugging an old photograph off the wall. It was about the size of a book, having been specially blown up from its original pocketbook size at the request of the home's previous owner.

Vincent then approached the table, open palms holding the photograph up for the two adult Tales to see. Both gazed at the image and exchanged confused glances, obviously not understanding exactly what he was pointing out.

"Well, Vincent," Beatrix said, with an tone clearly unsure as to where this was going, "It's true, you're not the first one to think so." She took the frame into her hands. "That woman there is my grandmother, and that's her brother, and her uncle. And her friends, see them?" She smiled, pointing them out one by one and leaning closer to her guest to show Vincent. "Though there is quite the family resemblance, isn't there?"

"Yes, there is," Vincent said, voice quieter than it had been all day, taking the photo and focusing a subdued gaze on the dusty inch-sized face of Ada Vessalius.

Now at an angle to recognize the old yellowing photograph, Lewis went silent, looking down at his feet. Despite his attention on the picture frame, Lewis could feel Vincent's gaze on him, assessing what he saw.

Was he going to tell them the truth, or what happened?

"Yes," he agreed, finally responding to Vincent's initial statement. "That is me. And my sister, and my uncle, and a gathering of my dearest friends."

He paused, raising his eyes to their faces, making note of their expressions—confused and pale and disbelieving, his father now posed to stand, his mother frozen in the position of conversing with their guest. He didn't dare let his eyes leave them, even to look back at Vincent.

"My name is Oz." He said finally, a bittersweet smile breaking what had been a solely nervous disposition. The words tasted truer on his lips then than they had in a long time. "Or, it was. Or, it sometimes is. I'm not even entirely sure myself.

"And I'm sure you're wondering about… everything," he said. "You probably have for a long time. I couldn't have been the most normal child to raise. But please believe me. I'm Oz. I'm Lewis, your son, too, Mom… Dad." His voice seemed to choke slightly on that last word, "But I'm also Oz."

He was crying, wasn't he? He was always crying, and the tears this time were met with silence. Except for footfalls—sometime during his speech, Vincent had moved closer to him.

"Okay, then."

He blinked away the water in his eyes and looked up. "What?"

"Okay, then." His mother shrugged. She was still pale and obviously confused, but she was smiling and her eyes were starting to get just as wet as his. "So you're our son, and you're Oz. Darling, I'm not sure exactly what you're talking about, but any night's a good night for a family story." She scooted away from her husband and patted the newly made space in between them with her hand. "Talk to us? Honestly, dear, you standing like that is making me nervous. You look like you're on trial."*

He personally thought he was more likely to look seconds away from passing out, but he conceded to her desire, moving around the coffee table.

He sat down in between his parents, and to his flustered delight they scooted closer again when he did. His father's hand went to his shoulder and his mother's to his hair, each waiting patiently for him to reveal more of himself, however fast or slow he chose to do it.

There was deep love in his life, then and now, and he knew, before he even started his tale, that that would be both his beginning and his end.

* * *

"So?"

"So what?"

"Well…" —a rustle, a shifting of weight and a loving, parental tenderness in proximity— "What should we call you, then?"

"I think…" —another rustle, another shifting of weight, and a desire to enjoy further the new closeness of that bond fulfilled—"I think, I would like to be Oz again. Not 'Vessalius,' not all the baggage that comes with the 'great hero' stuff, but… I'm not one or the other. I'm not me from the past, but I'm not an entirely new person. I'm just Oz."

Another rustle of clothing, a gaze lifted hopefully upward.

"Is that okay?"

"Yes, Oz."—an amused rush of air exhaled from one's nose—"Just Oz is fine."

* * *

**AN**: Well Lewis (or Oz, as you have returned to now), when you show up at your house with a ridiculously gorgeous and well-dressed guy and immediately request a family meeting, what did you _think _your parents would assume?

Also, after the next and final advance in Oz's little exposition section, we'll be focusing on Alice. I still have to solidify some stuff with her, though.

Detail Notes:

*Dukian—Pandora Hearts takes place in what seems to be their equivalent of the Victorian era. But as it isn't the same world, we can't really call it the Victorian era, can we? Historical eras were named are typically named after who's in charge, so—Dukian! From the date of the Tragedy of Sablier in 1792 to their abolition after the Tragedy of Reveille in 1900, The Era of the Four Great Dukedoms! (I refer to the second incident also as a Tragedy not because of outcome but because it still ended up trashing the country, and that would look a whole lot like tragedy to the people who lived there).

*For those wondering why Lewis' family seemed to believe him so instantly... they didn't. Not initially, at least. They love their son, but they're rational people and Lewis has had a history of, well, identity hiccups? in the past, so they actually started out humoring him here. In fact, his mother started crying because she was scared for him, thinking he was having another episode, but she knew better than to turn him away when he needed and wanted to talk with her. By the end of their conversation they're taking him more seriously, considering Vincent backs him up, but it'll take them some time to completely believe it, and that'll be explored later on.

*Because Pandora Hearts' locations are mostly French words relating to time or sound in some way, I'm calling the country "Sable." It's French for "sand," and is one of the words that make up the French "Sablier," or "hourglass," which gave the former capital its name. The history of the country, particularly the hundred years we missed, will also be delved into and fleshed out more as we go.

_*_Finally, Lewis' father's name, Richard, comes from Richard Adams, the author of _Watership Down_. Ironic, considering that, of Lewis' rabbit-themed, writer-named parents, Richard's by far the more peaceful and calm one. Even worse, he works for a land development firm (but he's a nice guy, I swear. I just had too much fun making his name more awful the more you think about it).

*Lewis' brother's name, Anderson, comes from Hans Christian Anderson.


	3. Advance III: Jūjō-Ningyō

It's official; I think Pandora Hearts is magic. I had been so creatively stumped for the past few months from stress, and then it ends and it's like I can't be contained anymore XD. I've actually had this Advance done for three days! But I'm trying to stick to updating every two days, so as not to hit ruts later.

Since the closing scene of last Advance was Lewis returning to "Just Oz," he's referred to as Oz again.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance III: Jūjō-Ningyō_

Oz-and-also-Lewis woke up the next morning, blinking blearily in the morning sunlight and rubbing sleep from his monza-colored eyes. Someone had pulled his window curtains open.

He turned his head, and there was Vincent.

"Were you watching me sleep?"

"Get up," said the taller blonde, "You've had your rest. We've still got someone else to collect before we can get back to Gil."

Oz yawned sleepily and sat up in his bed. "Okay, okay. Just let me get dressed, will you? Or are you going to stay here and watch that too?"

Vincent was gone before he could even finish the question.

Down in the kitchen, Oz found his mother making pancakes, Vincent already seated at the kitchen table (they had the Barma's dining hall, but that was only used for special occasions). Beatrix didn't usually cook, but she always did whenever her sons' friends were over. She thought it was a more personal, more friendly gesture.

Vincent, at the table, was smiling gently down at the pancake bites on his fork, but when he caught Oz looking at him the smile quickly fell into a blushing scowl.

"I still don't know about this," his mother muttered from her place in front of the stove.

Oz busied himself a plate and forked some pancakes and bacon on to it. "Don't know about what, Mom?"

"Letting you leave the country like this," she muttered, eyes still on the pan and jabbing a liquidy pancake with the spatula.

"Leave the _country?_" Oz cried, looked askingly at Vincent.

The man nodded, scowling. "The person we're looking for lives with her mother near the border in Idvitz." He grimaced, "She'll probably react better to you than me."

"Well, it's not like you get any points for personality."

"Lew-Oz!"

"Sorry, Mom."

"It's not me you need to apologize to!"

"Yes, Mom." He sighed. "I'm sorry for the insult, Vincent." He wasn't.

Especially not since Vincent was now smirking from ear to ear at their exchange.

His mother came around the island with a pan full of done pancakes, pushing them onto the serving plate on the table. "Well, you'll need to find your passport, then. I'm sure your father has it, if he hasn't lost it since that family trip to Malaco."

Oz started. "You're letting me _go?_"

His mother turned to him, sighed, filled her own plate with pancakes and sat down. She didn't touch her food.

"Darling," she started. "Ever since you were little, you've only really been half-here."

Oz winced. He knew that, but the way she said it was all too familiar.

"And when we took you to that psychiatrist, it looked like we'd gotten an answer, but…" She crumpled her napkin in her right hand, "The more I looked into the things you said during your… episodes, the less that answer fit. And your life didn't get any easier." She let go of her napkin and instead grabbed his hand in hers. "I don't like letting you go, baby, and I'm still not sure of this. But if it'll finally give you whatever it is we haven't been able to, I'd be an awful mother to stop you."

"Oh, mom," Oz whispered. He leaned in for a hug again, and she accepted graciously, pulling him out of his chair and wrapping her arms around his waist. "Someone like you could never be an awful mother."

They finally broke apart after a time, Beatrix wiping her eyes with her crumpled napkin, and sat down to continue eating. Vincent had spent the entire touching moment averting his eyes and poking at his food.

"Haha, you know," she said teasingly, her eyes still a little wet, "we thought you were going to tell us something completely different last night."

To her surprise, she received the same answer in both an alarmingly faux innocent chirp and a deathrattle respectively. "We _know._"

Beatrix had the good grace to blush, before starting in on another topic.

Minutes later, the sound of business shoes on hard wood announced his father's arrival, interrupting the sounds of lively conversation between two people at the table while the third looked on and occasionally commented.

"Hey bud, you're up early," Richard said, leaning over to ruffle his son's feathery hair.

"If I wasn't, I'd have probably got a bucket of water to the head~!" Oz whined back pitifully, sending a mischievous grin Vincent's way. "He was desperate to wake me up."

Vincent groaned. His mother laughed.

"Really?" His father raised a hand to ruffle Vincent's hair, which Vincent dodged, looking subtely terrified. "And why is that?"

As Oz now had his mouth full, Vincent answer for him. "With your permission, sir, we're going to find a girl called Edith Lyman."

Oz paused with pancakes still on his fork. "Edith?"

Vincent nodded.

"Oh?" his mother called. "And who is this Edith?"

"She's, uh… She's another old friend, Mom." Oz glanced uncertainly at Vincent. "Right?"

He nodded again. "Most likely."

"And where are you going?"

"Out of the country," Beatrix answered, commandeering the conversation from the boys. "So he'll be needing his passport, sweetie." Somehow, those words managed came out as a warning. Oz quickly swallowed the rest of his food.

"Out of the _country?_" Her husband exclaimed, so startlingly similar to his son in reaction that Vincent did a double-take. "Why on earth would we let him go out of the country with someone we've only just met!?"

"Well, we'll leave you two to discuss it!" Oz interrupted quickly, yanking Vincent by the sleeve of his shirt and pulling him out of the chair.

"Wait—what?"

But they were already out the kitchen door.

"My mom will convince him," Oz assured quickly. "It's just better I'm not there, because they'll both be trying to appeal to me until she does."

He took Vincent into the parlour. "Can you wait here for a while?" He asked his guest seriously. Then, "I've gotta go pack, and I don't want you dumping buckets of water on any of my things."

He left Vincent in the parlour, scowling in his wake.

* * *

His father came into his room later, while he was debating between packing his special edition _Ninja Nutcracker Volume 2_ or _Tome of the Mist King_. He was required to read _Great Philosophers of the Intransigence Movement_ for school and he'd already packed his favorite three volumes of the now out-of-print series _Holy Knight_, so he didn't have much space left. Hedia had said _Tome of the Mist King_ was good, but he'd caught her crying while she read it and he wasn't sure he was prepared for that.*

"Your mother has your passport," Richard said. He was eyeing the substantial pile of books his son had laid out on his bed with amusement.

Oz grinned back at him. "Yeah, I could hear that from all the way up here."

"Quiet, you." They started at each other for a second. Richard looked like he wanted to say something else, but his bottom jaw was protruding like he'd just swallowed his own tongue.

Finally he found something. Peering into his son's suitcase, he grinned. "_Great Philosophers of the Intransigence Movement?_ You mean you don't have their names memorized yet?"

"Oh, I do" Oz smirked, always the studious scamp. "I just haven't read that particular book, and it's assigned reading. Although I'm not actually sure when I'll be back at school, what with all this happening…" He bit his lip. "Oh…"

His father just chuckled, turning back around to the door. "Clean this mess up," he directed, gesturing at the pile of books. "I'll call in and say we had a family emergency." He sighed and gave a lopsided smile to his son. "They _are_ family, right?"

Oz nodded, his expression melting into an equally soft smile.

Turning back to his books, he took a last look at his two options and tossed _Tome of the Mist King_ into his suitcase. If it was good enough to make someone like Hedia cry in public, it was probably worth the pain.

* * *

Vincent wasn't there by the time he returned to the parlour.

"He was commandeered by your mother," his father told him when he asked. "He made the mistake of telling her that he'd visited the Hanging Gardens of Ostene before they collapsed in '53. I'm pretty sure you have to go with him now, Le-Oz. She's not going to let him get away without a way to nab him back."

Oz pouted, his cheeks slightly puffed. "And _I'm_ the holdup? I thought he was impatient."

His father agreed. "Don't worry, though, bud. I'm sure she can't hold him captive forever, wherever they are."

In the end Oz wound up waited for Vincent in the entrance hall, next to the portraits and gilded grandfather clocks and directoire portrait mirrors, tablet in his lap as he killed time on social media.

Cooper (CooperiteisRite) wasn't on to chat right now, nor were his friends Sharon (SCreechy2Moons), Kate (KatWantDatCamill), or Rachel (CosGrovesintheValley)**. He sent them messages each warning them that he might not be online (or, to Cooper, in school) for a while, though he wasn't sure how long that would be. He didn't want to worry them if he was gone for a while.

He logged off, put his tablet away, and took out his book bag. He could start on a new one, he thought. _Tome of the Mist King _was probably good, and _Great Philosophers_ needed to be read _some_time.

He thought about it, and then picked one of the volumes of Holy Knight. Bending down to get it out, he caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror.

Oz had to admit to himself; it was pretty strange looking like this again. Fifteen years of growing, and he'd just gone back to the way he'd been before: five foot three, feathery blonde hair with that mysterious cowlick in the front that never brushed out, and a Holy Knight book in his hand.

Physically, there was really only one—albeit extremely noticeable—difference.

He knew about what his eyes had meant long before he regained his first old memory. His earliest dreams had all been about bright golden voids filled with thousands of whispering, clattering, shouting, laughing voices. Many times at night, when he'd fallen asleep, he'd dream he was floating in that land of golden light. There was always someone with him.

There was always someone there, and at fifteen, he now looked just like them. And he was well aware they weren't actually dreams.

Coming back, Oz pulled out the book and tried to begin reading. He ended up in a staring contest with his reflection, until Vincent came and finally took him away.

* * *

AN: That's the end of Oz's prequel… thing. Alice is up next! Expect her first Advance the day after tomorrow, as always.

Details:

*There are a bunch of countries around Sable (the name I chose to give the country in PH). Their political activities have had a lot of influence in the world these last 100 years, and they haven't always been friendly. More on them will be brought up later.

**I had an _inhumanly_ large amount of fun coming up with their screennames. I went through a list of children's authors and looked for whoever had names I could mush and mock (but whose books I had still read).

*Oz's friend from Dodgson, Drew Cooper, or as he's called online "CooperiteisRite" (most of Oz's friends have ridiculous usernames, but Drew's the one he makes fun of for it because he knows him in real life) is named for _The Dark is Rising Sequence'_s Drew siblings and the series' author, Susan Cooper. He's a chemistry nerd, if you couldn't tell from his screenname.

*Sharon (or "SCreechy2Moons") is named for Sharon Creech, author of _Walk Two Moons_.

*Kate (or "KatWantDatCamill") is named for Kate DiCamillo, author of _The Tale of Despereaux. _I don't know how I came up with that screenname, but it is my favorite and I love myself for it. Someone make this a thing.

*Rachel (or "CosGrovesintheValley") is named for Rachel Cosgrove, author of _The Hidden Valley of Oz._

*True fact: I almost added another screenname, YMILoud2dew-bis, solely because I couldn't believe how ridiculous I was being with the others.

*Oz has two screennames, but the one he uses most is LewisTales. He was able to do that because, surprisingly, his name is so comicbook-ish that nobody's actually had the audacity to take it. He uses that one to blog about books, movies, and other media he likes. His chat name is LaFayette, courtesy of peer pressure. Why will probably come up later.

*Back when I was in my tenth grade Creative Writing class, we were assigned to create a fictitious library, filled with science, trade, history, geography, research, philosophy, fiction, comics and movies, all of which we had to provide the fictional author's name and at least a small summary for. I thought it would be hard, but it turned out to be really fun and a dead useful strategy for worldbuilding (after all, a library is where your world's public knowledge is, hammer that out and you've got their culture in the bag). Even though I was really just pulling stuff out of the air, some of the ideas I came up really inspired me. Some were utterly stupid, some came out as genre parodies, and some looked like books I would legitimately want to read if I found them on the shelf. For anyone who's suffering from writer's block, I seriously recommend just picking a subject you like and making up fake books about it.

In this particular instance, I wanted to make up a list of books, comics, manga and movies Oz might have on his bookshelf, because he's a total fanboy even in the past and I can imagine him reveling in the joys of the thousands of easily-accessible fiction works we have in the present (and also tumblr, the single largest gathering of his kind).


	4. Advance IV: Rapunzel

Warning: bullying, parental addiction.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance IV:_ _Rapunzel_

"_Welcome to _Things You Overlooked in History Class_ from whythingsdostuff. com. Hello and welcome to the podcast, I'm Kristen Shepsbunt."*_

"_And I'm Cicile Dougbert."_

"_And today we are granting a fairly popular listener request. Since the release of the movie _Clockwork_ in theaters this May we've had a lot of requests for this particular subject, but here is a sample e-mail sent to us from Ashleigh of Aquand, Idvitz who said that she'd listened to our podcast on the Baskerville Dukedom and had some questions. Well, first off, thank you for listening, Ashleigh, it's good to hear our podcast is reaching over national borders and tensions. And now to your question:_

_"_I've recently learned about the last Vessalius heir, Oz, and the mystery that surrounds him. In 1890 when he was supposedly assassinated by the Baskervilles, they never had a funeral, and there are many who believe that he was actually living in secret inside Lamontre. Did he die or did he really survive the fall of his family like in the movie?"*

"_So, just to fill in our new listeners, back when Johanna and Ike were running the podcast they did an episode on Glen Baskerville: how did he die? But this time the question more accurately is, _did_ he really die? Cicile?"_

"_Yeah, there's definitely a lot of uncertainty about this particular figure in history, Kristen. It's a lot for anyone to dig through, and it hasn't helped that the story has become a kind of national legend over the last century. There's a great number of first person accounts from, well, people who claimed to know Oz Vessalius, people who claimed to see him on the street, and even some people who claimed to have attended a party in his honor _years_ after his death, most prominently the famed horticulturalist Phillipe West. And yet, his father adamantly denied the boy's survival and even forbade the press from releasing any more information on the investigation into his murder."_

"_Kind of an obvious lie, you could say. And that's exactly what many people thought; they thought his father was protecting his life by hiding him, or that Oz had done something to get barred from going out in public, and some even suggested at the time that there was something legitimately _wrong _with the boy. That last claim even today has a few rare historians who take it seriously, mostly due to the events that happened later._

"_Yeah, so as you can see, not many people in elite society really beli—"_

"Miss Lyman!"

The girl yanked the earbuds from her lobes, sitting up a little straighter and lifting an eyebrow at the woman in front of her. She glanced around quickly, noting both the substitute choir teacher and the students all staring.

"Stop sleeping in class, or it's another detention!"

She shrugged and slouched back in her chair. The substitute scoffed and returned to the front.

A girl near her leaned in to speak with her, a small level of disgust coloring her tone. "It'd be easier to stay awake in here if you didn't listen to that while she's talking."

Edith shrugged. "It helps me."

The girl gave no reply, but Edith didn't expect one.

Instead she spent her time gazing around the room, before subtly pressing play again on her player.

"—_eved the boy was dead, which is strange looking back because there really was no solid evidence to say he was alive, either. Even historians who believe the boy died in the assassination attempt agree that the nobles all probably knew more than they would say. The problem is, we just don't know what that was."_

"_Now, to get into what we know now and why the public was hesitant to make up its mind either way about the assassination story after the removal of the Dukedoms from power in 1901, we have to go back to Zai Vessalius and the founding of the Intransigence Movement."_

"_The story starts about twenty-five years earlier, in the Winter of 1874, when the infamous Collin Snow* and Oz's father, Zai Vessalius, challenged each other to a duel…"_

* * *

Edith hadn't managed to get them all out of her backpack.

As soon a she'd gotten away from the headmaster's office, she dumped the hundred or so that had been in her locker out in the rubbish bin as soon as she could, which was hard because someone had moved the trash can out of her locker's hallway. But an administrator had seen one of them and given her another detention for having one, which made no sense.

Please. As if she cared at this point. She was Edith, she had way better things to do. It wasn't like any of them had enough reason to reason with, anyways.

Today had already been rotten enough. She usually enjoyed chorus class, but the substitute selected was one of the neighbors from her apartment complex, and Edith was well aware that the woman would have given her detention for smiling if there weren't witnesses. Not that the witnesses would have stopped her, but she didn't know that.

She met Neil out by the gates as she did every day. Edith still wasn't entirely sure why he bothered to wait for her the first time, but he'd done it every day since freshman year. She supposed it was initially because his mother made him; the woman was always out to guide someone she considered a lost soul. It didn't matter to Edith.

"Hey Pigeon," she said, grinning and greeting him with her signature nickname for him.

"U-um," he stammered, pointing at something sticking out of the mesh drink holder on the side of her backpack. She craned her neck and saw another one she'd failed to removed.

"Uugh," she groaned. She took it out, grabbed Neil by his bookbag strap, and, smirking, slipped it in one of the pockets. "Here, I'm sure you'll use it someday."

"I-I don't want this_!"_ He cried, trying to dig out the tiny plastic package. "My mom will kill me if she sees it!"

"Well, it's better than it going to waste, right? Those punks spent all that money getting enough to fill my locker; one of them might as well get used."

He sighed, defeated, as they began walking down the street towards their shared apartment complex. "I thought you were supposed to be in detention now?"

"You know as well as I do that I wasn't going to go. Otherwise you wouldn't have waited for me!"

He said nothing for a time. Then, in an awestruck, terrified sort of voice, he asked, "So you really did beat them all up?"

Edith sent him a flying smirk. "What do you think?" She shrugged. "Their parents were called in, mine never showed up. Gee, I wonder why."

He was startled. "Are you _expelled_ or something?"

"They might be thinking about it." She didn't look like she cared. "The parents were angry as hell, though. The headmaster too. They were talking about charging me with assault, until I mentioned counter-suiting for sexual harassment. Especially since they said they were for my mother." She pointed at his book bag, to the pocket with the small bit of plastic and rubber inside. "Things got really quiet after that, and the parents took their kids and left fast."

Neil made a worried cooing noise, very much like a sad dove. There was a reason she called him Pigeon. "I hope they don't try to press charges again."

"Pfft!" She grinned and stuck her nose in the air as if she'd completely forgotten the rut she was in earlier, looking strangely childish in her prideful excitement. "I'm tougher than all of them; they'll be lucky to quiver at my feet!"

"Oh really?" Neil said, almost smiling—which was rare, around her. Usually he spent his time in a kind of half-terrified trance.

"Yes, really!" She replied stubbornly. "And when Oz and Seaweedhead get here—"

"Edith, they're not real."

The grin immediately turned into a glare, and suddenly she was way too close to his face. "They _are_ real!"

He put up both his hands placatingly. "Okay, okay!"

"Right," she said, clearing her throat, turning 90° again and continuing their walk. "When Oz and Seaweedhead get here, I'll be leaving anyways."

He was stunned into silence for a minute, so much so that two little preschool girls passing them on the sidewalk pulled at their eyes with their fingers to imitate his 'funny face.'

"_Leaving?"_

"Yup," Edith said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Would you stay here, if you were me? I'm getting out. As soon as I figure out a place where Mom can be safe. And they're _Oz _and _Seaweedhead_, of course they'll help with that."

It was a block till they reached the apartment, but whenever he was with Edith he always felt furthest from home.

* * *

"Hey, Mr. Wilde!" she bellowed, waving to her neighbor as she climbed the steps up to her apartment on the second floor.

"Hello there, young Edith!" the huge, bespeckled man cried exuberantly. "How was your day at school?"

"Oh, you know," Edith replied, Mr. Wilde's enthusiasm once again urging her to excitement. "I came, I saw, I conquered!"

He cheered, and they high-fived as she passed.

"AndbythatImeanIgotintoafightagain_,_" she said very quickly.

He sobered. _"Edith…"_

"What?" She asked rhetorically. "They started it! They booby-trapped my locker. I'm lucky that statement isn't literal this time!"

He sighed again, putting the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead and massaging the skin between his blonde bangs and eyebrows. "We'll discuss this later. Listen, Edith, your mother's home, and a letter—"

She was gone before he got the next word out, ripping open her own front door and dashing inside.

The lights were all off, the navy curtains shrouding the space inside. The white walls appeared grey in the gloom.

A single figure, loosely dressed in tattered, stained, worn-out clothes and shaking slightly under them, was lying on the linoleum floor between the coffee table and the television, curly dark hair splayed about her head like thicket. There were four or five bottles and cans around her.

"Mom?" Edith asked. There was no response. She walked over to the huddled form on the ground and knelt down, reaching a hand out to shake her. "Mom?"

With a gasp that shook her entire body, the woman turned and grabbed hold of Edith by the arm, her face in her lap. "Edith! Edith, Edith…" she murmured, her own drunken sea shanty.

"_Verzeihung…_"*

She'd forgotten about the letter Mr. Wilde had mentioned. She didn't remember to check the mail slot for the next two days, busy as she was with making sure her mother didn't end up in the hospital. When she did, there were three letters. The first was a notice of suspension from the school, which she thought was hilarious. The second was a letter from her grandparents, announcing that they would be collecting her next Sunday for their monthly allotted time together.

The third was unassuming, though the envelope was thick business grade paper and obviously expensive. It was marked "Time Sensitive," and she felt unusually reprimanded for forgetting to collect the letters as long as she did. Surprisingly, however, it was addressed to her.

But it was the name in the return address that caught her attention.

It was marked simply "Oz."

Edith read it, then folded it back up in the envelope and put it next to her copy of _The Boy in the Background: Investigating the Omitted Heir of Vessalius, _her DVD of the musical _1901 _performed at King Edmé's Theater, a recorded copy of the _History's Mysteries' _episode "The Vanished Vessalius_," _and a print of an old group photograph she'd bought at a rummage sale of a long-ended Vessalius tea party.

Edith packed—not only clothes for an intercontinental journey, but all of the things in her room. She packed most of her mother's things, too, except the things she needed to live off of, and after that she checked on her mother again, still sleeping, and told her, as she so often did, that her parents couldn't keep them in this place any longer. That no matter what happened, they would be leaving this place. She would make sure of it.

She grinned. She twirled around the kitchen and went sock sliding across the linoleum in the living room. She took all of the things in her "Ours" collection—the books, the DVDs, the photograph, even the old musical so they'd have something to laugh at—and packed them in a place especially easy to reach.

And she waited.

* * *

AN: Fun fact—all three of the trio have managed to get a copy of the tea-party picture, now known famously as T_he Lamontre Fils Photograph_. It's a pretty famous picture by then, given that it was full of some of the most powerful people in the country at the time it was taken and it was the last photograph many of them were ever in. Also, it contained the image of someone everyone had assumed was dead over a decade before the picture was taken.

Details:

*Did I just fanon my favorite history podcast into an alternate universe? You bet I did. _Things You Overlooked in History Class_ is based off real-life podcast _Stuff You Missed in History Class_, recorded by co-hosts Katie Lambert and Sarah Dowdy. The podcast usually covers historical mysteries, major recent discoveries, and things that are important but for some reason or another are not focused on in-depth in public school history classes. In particular, some of the fictitious dialogue here is inspired by their episode _What Happened to the Romanovs? _

Incidentally, I wrote out this entire podcast, not just the beginning. If I decided to post it as an extra after all, it's probably right after this Advance. (it's not really that important, just about all the different theories outsiders had as to what happened to Oz Vessalius, or, as the prevailing theory is, why Zai would murder his son).

*We were talking over on Ryoura's blog again about the different ways people in modern day might view the characters of PH as historical figures, and it was brought up that Oz, a hidden noble kept isolated for all of his life, supposedly murdered, and then framed for an international disaster post-mortem, would probably be seen as a huge point of intrigue for history buffs on par with the obsession that used to follow the name Anastasia before her body was found. Hence the many books, movies, and even a musical! (Although that's more about all the key players in the revolution of 1901 and Oz is only seen in flashbacks there. Think of it like _1776, _if _1776_ was sadder, less non-violent, and one of the guys in Congress kept having flashbacks about a guy having flashbacks about the son he murdered ten years before). This gave me the idea for the next detail:

*Edith isn't as emotionally open as Alice. Alice didn't see any merit to hiding one's emotions (although that might have something to do with being very, very, very sheltered), and was innocent in a way that Edith isn't (Edith's still just as blunt, though). Edith can't show weakness in the environment she's grown up in, she's had to be the emotionally strong one for her mother and herself, so she's grown some thick skin. But whenever she's really upset and can't put on a tough façade anymore, she goes to find a book or movie or podcast or something about her friends to feel closer to them again, even if most of the theories the historians have cobbled together aren't true. She doesn't get much pocket money, but what little she does get from her grandparents goes to items like this.

*The name "Edith Lyman" comes from the poem "All in the Golden Afternoon," in which there are three girls accompanying Lewis Carroll on a boat ride, referred to as "Prima," the first, "Secunda," the second, and "Tertia," the third. Secunda's real name is Alice, and the girl after her is Edith. "Lyman" is the first name of L. Frank Baum, the author of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz._

*Like most of my original names, Collin Snow is a reference to a children's book and the author of that children's book. In this case, Suzanne Collins' _The Hunger Games, _and the character President Snow. This is one extra character that will definitely be mentioned, at least in passing, later. He's huge on the political scene before, but especially after, the Tragedy of Reveille.

*Mr. Ashermael Wilde's name came from _The Happy Prince_ by Oscar Wilde. His first name is "Asher+Mael," the Hebrew word for Happiness and the Welsh word for Prince combined.

*"Verzeihung" is a German word that roughly means "I'm so sorry." There are many German words meaning "sorry," which can be used to express sympathy or be polite, but this one in particular denotes an apology for a perceived wrong. I use German here because I wanted to get across that she's foreign (to both Sable and Idvitz, as she's clearly speaking a different language than anyone else) without alienating the reader from what she's saying. I was going to use French, but Sable's the country with the French name theme, so I chose another European language.


	5. Advance IV: Bonus Podcast Special

Hi everybody! **This isn't technically a chapter**, but rather an exercise that at least some people told me they'd want to read. Anyways, **this is** **the full version of the podcast Edith listens to** in the beginning of Advance: IV.

I wrote it initially to try to set straight what the general public might have thought about Oz and the time period we got to see in general. After all, our main characters were elite members a secret society (Pandora) or a secret underground family (the Baskervilles). Outsiders must've been confused as hell when those societies collapsed and they had to deal with the aftermath. And they were. They've spent the last 100 years trying to make sense of all of it, looking for motivations that make sense to them and connecting dots that wouldn't really connect at all if they knew the truth.

Anyways, since this is supposed to be a podcast, try to imagine that every time there's a new paragraph, they're alternating speakers.

* * *

_**Things You Overlooked in History Class, Episode 89: The Murder(?) of Oz Vessalius**_

_~The Death That Set Up the Great Tousterre War~_

"_Welcome to _Things You Overlooked in History Class_ from whythingsdostuff. com. Hello and welcome to the podcast, I'm Kristen Shepsbunt."*_

"_And I'm Cicile Dougbert."_

"_And today we are granting a fairly popular listener request. Since the release of the movie _Clockwork_ in theaters this May we've had a lot of requests for this particular subject, but here is a sample e-mail sent to us from Ashleigh of Aquand, Idvitz who said that she'd listened to our podcast on the Baskerville Dukedom and had some questions. Well, first off, thank you for listening, Ashleigh, it's good to hear our podcast is reaching over national borders and tensions. And now to your question:_

_"_I've recently learned about the last Vessalius heir, Oz, and the mystery that surrounds him. In 1890 when he was supposedly assassinated by the Baskervilles, they never had a funeral, and there are many who believe that he was actually living in secret inside Lamontre. Did he die or did he really survive the fall of his family like in the movie?"*

"_So, just to fill in our new listeners, back when Johanna and Ike were running the podcast they did an episode on Glen Baskerville: how did he die? But this time the question more accurately is,_did_ he really die? Cicile?"_

"_Yeah, there's definitely a lot of uncertainty about this particular figure in history, Kristen. It's a lot for anyone to dig through, and it hasn't helped that the story has become a kind of national legend over the last century. There's a great number of first person accounts from, well, people who claimed to know Oz Vessalius, people who claimed to see him on the street, and even some people who claimed to have attended a party in his honor _years_ after his death, most prominently the famed horticulturalist Phillipe West. And yet, his father adamantly denied the boy's survival and even forbade the press from releasing any more information on the investigation into his murder."_

"_Kind of an obvious lie, you could say. And that's exactly what many people thought; they thought his father was protecting his life by hiding him, or that Oz had done something to get barred from going out in public, and some even suggested at the time that there was something legitimately _wrong _with the boy. That last claim even today has a few rare historians who take it seriously, mostly due to the events that happened later._

"_Yeah, so as you can see, not many people in elite society really believed the boy was dead, which is strange looking back because there really was no solid evidence to say he was alive, either. Even historians who believe the boy died in the assassination attempt at his Coming of Age Ceremony agree that the nobles all probably knew more than they would say. The problem is, we just don't know what that was. And in a strange, bizarre way, it's that information gap and how people used it that ended up leading Sable into a worldwide war._

"_Now, to get into what we know now and why the public was hesitant to make up its mind either way about the assassination story after the removal of the Dukedoms from power in 1901, we have to go back to Zai Vessalius and the founding of the Intransigence Movement."_

"_The story starts about twenty-five years earlier, in the Winter of 1874, when the infamous Collin Snow* and Oz's father, Zai Vessalius, challenged each other to a duel. Zai was Snow's major political enemy and even back then Snow thought he symbolized a lot of the things wrong with the current leadership in the country. By all reports, Zai was arrogant, elitist, image-conscientious, and a little too set in his ways—it's suspected now as it was then that he'd paid off the royal advisors not to present the Petition of Four Armaments to the King, and that was a big deal to a lot of people."_

"_For those who don't know, the Petition of Four Armaments was essentially a statement sent to the king by working class individuals who wanted to be allowed to own their own weapons. Whether it's a good thing they were denied or not, we can't say, but Zai's actions certainly didn't make him any friends amongst the lower classes._

"_Even worse to many, Zai was set up to inherit the Dukedom, which meant that he would control essentially the largest fourth of all nobility-owned property in the _country, _including most of the best properties in the cities that were rented out to residents, industrialists, and shop owners, along with the political clout that went with that. But that all changed, which is where Zai's motivation for the duel comes in."_

"_Yeah, Zai had a major problem with the aforementioned bribery, and that's that everyone knew about it_._ Whether he actually did it or not is no longer here nor there, because everyone believed he did anyways. Petitioner Collin Snow, who wrote up an article about it and submitted it to the _Reveille Daily Tidings_, managed to get it published and later picked up by at least a dozen local news outlets and even the national paper of the time, the _King's Herald. _Which, of course, lead to King Brennan eventually hearing about the Petition of Four Armaments anyways, but with an additional bit of news about Zai's bribery. So if Zai really did bribe the advisors, it was a spectacular failure."_

"_In the long run, this bribery incident didn't really cause any major shifts in court, because Brennan as a king was really too weak to get rid of anyone, but the biggest impact it had was ruining Zai's standing in his household. Because of the national embarrassment he caused being so close to his father's death, Zai was passed over for his younger brother Oscar, who became the last Vessalius to be the Duke of Flambeau. Which gave Zai a pretty good reason to want to shoot Snow if he could."_

"_Well, I'd want to shoot someone too if they ruined my grand evil scheme."_

"Really?"

"_No. Not at all. Anyways, Zai met Snow outside the gates of Lamontre, which was actually kind of a smart thing because if he did get shot, all of his staff were right there._

"_And this is a good thing for him for other reasons, too. It's the twenty-second of December, and his wife is now nine months pregnant with their first child, the boy who would be named Oz Vessalius. We don't know exactly when his relationship with his family began to go downhill, but at this point, for such a politically ruthless guy, Zai actually seems to be a very loving husband. Not too much of a good brother—there are eyewitness accounts from maids about how he would often walk into the Duke Vessalius' office shouting—but for now that just seems to be a non-violent level of jealousy."_

"_That will change, though, as his son grows up."_

"_So Zai and Snow have this duel outside of Lamontre, they do their paces, but the results are reported in contradiction. Snow initially claims he missed, while a Vessalius-employed guard, Mr. Josue Desjardins, contradicts this in an interview with the local newspaper, claiming that Snow had shot Zai in the face. Later images and accounts of Zai do include a rather nasty scar, so Desjardins' account is likely the more accurate one. But it's not surprising Snow would deny doing this, either, as deliberately aiming above the shoulders was seen as particularly disgraceful__—__dueling etiquette of the time holds that an _honorable_ duel's purpose is to draw blood, not kill, and so one is supposed to aim at the limbs, rather than any particularly vital points. __Snow himself is definitely hit in the arm, something relatively provable as his medical records are still property of the Sablien National Archives. After this defeat and mild disgrace, Snow cuts his losses and seemingly returns to seething about Zai from a distance."_

"_But what we know now is that he actually started doing his own research into the Vessalius family. Initially he came up with pretty much squat—then Zai had his son."_

"_Yeah, so Oz Abithumicis Jaqovel Vessalius is born on December 26__th__, 1874 and he's a fine, healthy baby. In fact, he surprised everyone with prodigal motor control and intelligence, his mother Rachelle is recorded in her diaries as saying that it was as if Oz had already been walking long before he was born, and that he said his first word, "mama," when he was eight months old, which is about five months before the average."_

"_Exactly, Cicile. It becomes obvious, in fact, that this is an incredibly smart child, and he's also something else. From the moment he is born, Oz is considered __the hair presumptive__ of the Vessalius Dukedom, unless it so happens that the Duke were to have heirs of his own."_

"_Which he doesn't, not for lack of trying. Sarah Vessalius, his wife, dies giving birth to a stillborn child in 1878, and it's right around here that we start seeing some cracks in Zai's happy family._

"_Right. Zai, more politically minded, is almost never home and the new widower Oscar seems to take Oz being his heir with grace. The Duke plays with the boy, takes an active role in structuring his education, dots on him and gives him presents, and really, it seems, he ends up taking the place of Zai as Oz's father figure. On Oz's fourth birthday__—about eight months after his Duchess' death__—he grants Oz the use of the courtesy title _Marquis de Loupe_, a title traditionally held by the Duke's son and heir apparent.* __Startlingly, it's around this point that we start seeing Zai act malevolently towards Oz. His wife, Rachelle, is heavily pregnant again when she writes in diary on February 15__th__, 1881, "_I am alarmed to find that my husband has returned to the house and left again without my knowledge, and that he has left disaster in his wake. He has refused to see Oz or hear of his wellbeing, even though our son so desperately longs to see him. Oscar is livid." _This is actually the first of several such documented occurrences from her diary and the notes of others in the household."_

"_But the tipping point seems to have come in August of 1884, when Rachelle dies in a carriage accident. To the concern of many, Zai doesn't even attend the funeral—in fact, his family loses track of him for an entire year."_

"_He starts to turn up again with the occasional visit in the fall of 1885, even premeditating these appointments with the staff so that everything will be ready for his speedy arrival and departure. To the staff, that meant getting Oz ready to be presented to his father for the first time in four years. However, each time Zai visited, he refused his servants' offers to bring his son to him. Something changes, though, with the arrival of a boy named Gilbert."_

"_Gilbert was hired by the Duke to—officially—act as his nephew's personal servant, but in reality he acted as more of a playmate for Ada and Oz, who by their father's decree weren't allowed off the estate and weren't allowed to see other children. And Gilbert very quickly became extremely loyal to the two siblings, particularly to Oz. So much so that on Zai's first visit with Gilbert present, the boy by all accounts chased him down and demanded to know why he wouldn't visit his son. Unfortunately, said son had followed Gilbert to stop him, and so heard what his father said next._

"_Now, reports here differ. Some of the porters later said that Zai told his son he wished he wasn't born. Some say he told his son to "go die." Unfortunately, other than the two boys, the only people nearby were Zai's personal butlers whom he had chosen specifically for their discretion, and they took whatever was truly said to the grave. Of the very few bits of information anyone was able to get out of Zai's personal servants post-revolution, one was that he generally considered Oz a curse of misfortune, and that Zai personally blamed him for his separation from his family and the deaths that had happened previous to Oz's own. All in all, none of which are nice things to tell your child. But, whatever Zai did say, it was bad enough that his son had a nervous breakdown that, according to the journal of his uncle the Duke, lasted for three whole days."_

"_Yikes. Well, he clearly didn't want a Father of the Year award anyways."_

"_Yeah. So, after that, Oz's uncle ordered that the staff not to tell Oz the dates of any more of his father's visits. In fact, while the Duke of Flambeau invites his brother multiple times via post to come discuss their issues, he thereafter completely stonewalls Zai's orders to keep Oz and Ada on the estate and begins moving the children around to other houses whenever their father visits. According to the Vessalius' children's governess, Mrs. Kate, the Duke became increasingly disturbed by Zai's frequent demands to see his daughter Ada but continuous rejection of his male child."_

"_Wow, that sounds… creepy."_

"_Indeed. But the Duke never gives in._

"_In fact, this game of keep-away between the brothers continues up until the fateful day of Oz's Coming of Age Ceremony. Now, typically according to Dukian tradition, the Ceremony would take place sometime during the noble's fifteenth year and be hosted by the child's father, who would oversee the event. Its completion signified the child's introduction into adult society. Of course, Oz, with his poor relationship with his father, had his put off twice because they couldn't convince Zai to show up for the date. Finally, in late Spring, the Duke decided he would take that role and moved the family to Orlueur, the original Vessalius estate that had been inhabited by Jack Vessalius, the Hero of Sablier."_

"_But…as you've probably well know, something went horribly wrong. During the middle of the Ceremony, after taking the vows of a Vessalius Duke, the heir was besieged by several individuals wearing the signature red cloaks of the Baskerville household. And, not even a minute later, Oz Vessalius was gone."_

"_And that's really the great mystery, Kristen, is that, despite people all over claiming to see him years after that, there really is no solid concrete proof of even his existence, after this. None of the guests at the party remember what happened after the figures in Baskerville cloaks appeared, none of the assailants were ever found and identified. It's actually heavily doubted that they were even Baskervilles, since the entire family was documented as wiped out during the first Tragedy. All that was really left was a large puddle of blood on the floor, but they weren't sure if it belonged to the young heir or to his servant Gilbert, who was found slashed across the chest and bleeding out on to the ground."_

"_However, when we said none of the guests remembered, it didn't mean _nobody_ remembered. In fact, part of the evidence against Zai for the attack—oh, and if you haven't figured out he's our main suspect, __**he's our main suspect—**__is that young Gilbert actually accused him of being one of the men wearing the Baskerville cloaks. There are two things that support this. One, Gilbert would have been close enough to see this, as he was Oz's personal servant and one of the closest people to where Oz was in the room at the time. He was actually found bleeding out after the attack roughly where Oz had been standing before he disappeared, so many believe he got his injuries trying to protect his master from his assailants. And two__—__as we mentioned earlier__—__contemporary descriptions of Zai Vessalius include the very distinct scar across his face, which would have made him easy to recognize even to someone who had only seen him once or twice."_

"_But Gilbert's accusations are brushed aside by almost everyone at the time. Except for—and I told you he'd come back—Collin Snow. Snow leaps on this allegation, and even though he can't get find Gilbert to get his testimony, he's already put together a file of pretty much all the details we've included about Zai and Oz's relationship so far, as well as details about Zai and his brother, the Duke. And even though Snow never gets actual proof of any of this during his lifetime, what he put together is pretty convincing for hearsay."_

"_Of course, we could just be saying that now because we have the journals and diaries to prove him right."_

"_Well, either way, what he put together was very efficient anti-Zai propaganda. Two months after young Oz's assassination, Snow introduced a theory into the newspapers that Zai had murdered his own son out of the jealous desire to be the first heir to the Dukedom again. He also claimed that Zai was most likely also going to make an attempt on the current Duke of Flambeau's life."_

"_And Zai, of course, takes offense, because he's already had enough of Collin Snow talking bad about him in the newspapers. Unfortunately, his decision to forbid the news outlets from reporting anything more about his son's murder investigation or even to use his son's name made him look that much more suspicious to the public."_

"_But as we said earlier in the podcast, Zai actually wasn't suspected of the murder by upper society. In fact, a lot of them believed at the time that there had never been a murder at all."_

"_Yes, many had been convinced—though noticeably, his brother the Duke was not amongst them—that anti-noble extremists from the newly born Intransigence Movement, which sought to bring down the Dukedoms, had attempted an assassination and that Oz was now being raised in hiding so as to keep the Vessalius heir alive and avoid future assassination attempts."_

"_Many felt this was supported by the fact that the Duke of Flambeau, despite his suddenly intensified hatred of his brother, did not actually report Oz as dead, nor did he change his official heir from Oz to his niece Ada or even his brother Zai."_

"_The problem with that, of course, is that other than a view sightings, there is no proof that Oz lived to see a day past his Ceremony beyond a small amount of bizarre circumstantial evidence that can easily be explained away."_

"_So now, what were these sightings? The first was seen by Misses Kate, the former Vessalius governess. Now, this is a woman who deeply loved the Vessalius heir. According to her family, Oz's disappearance affected her so poorly she quit her job with the Vessalius family all together and retired."_

"_And she is not only the member of the staff that took his death the hardest—besides his servant Gilbert, who reportedly ran away—she's also really the only one to see him in the immediate years after his death. Supposedly, on her yearly trip back to Orlueur to pray for the boy, she came across a set of stairs leading to a strange grave in a grotto on the grounds, marked with an Ionic Cross tombstone. There, she claimed she saw the apparition of Oz Vessalius, sitting on one of the cross' arms, dressed in strange clothing, and inspecting a moss-covered trinket she thought might've been a pocket watch. She described him as wearing 'a strangely long and loose green spencer with no buttons,' a 'bizarre looking low-class navy blue knit vest with no sleeves,' a white undershirt that was 'shockingly visible,' and a 'slackly fastened' blue and white striped tie.*"_

"_That's… oddly specific."_

"_According to her, she often worked as the children's tailor as well as their governess. But, keep in mind listeners, she also told people that the grotto was underground and 'lit by light that was not sunlight.' Not surprisingly, no such grotto has been found… moving on…"_

"_All the more _credible_ witnesses are much more interesting, because all of them claim to have seen him in the same two and a half month period in the year 1900, ten years after his reported death, and the reports grew more frequent until March 17__th__, when a warrant for Oz Vessalius' execution was released to the public by Rufus Barma, the Duke of Paondronte, in conjunction with Zai Vessalius on charges of conspiracy, treason, and murder. It went on to say that until he was caught and executed, the destruction that was spreading around the country—now referred to as the Tragedy of Reveille—would not cease. The next day, on March 18__th__, the surviving members of the Four Great Dukedoms met in Reveille's Judicial Square—missing Zai Vessalius, presumed dead—and, as one, retracted their statement, proclaiming that it was wrong to shame and speak ill of the innocent dead. During this announcement, it is said Lady Ada burst into tears and had to be lead off. After March 18__th__, 1900, there are no more credible reported sightings."_

"_Reliable witnesses supporting Oz's continued existence up until March are Phillipe West, Vincent and Gilbert Nightray, a Nightray servant named Leo, Oscar and Ada Vessalius and Reim and Sharon Rainsworth, and although the latter three later retracted their statements, their surviving journal entrees paint a very different story. The problem with that story is that it, too, does not make any sense."_

"_Indeed, while many of these accounts are collectively internally cohesive, the details—consistent though they may be—are nearly impossible. In January of the same year, Ada Vessalius describes her first meeting with her brother in a decade as 'happy, but pitiful' because 'he is my older brother, but he is no more an adult than on that day ten years ago.' Reim Lunettes—not yet Rainsworth—admits in his notes the week previous that he was 'surprised at the clarity and power contained in the eyes of that fifteen-year-old boy.' At one point, each of the witnesses detail that all of the nobles involved with the Four Dukedoms were present when the massacre of the surviving Nightray family occurred, and the circumstances of this were kept secret because at the time of their deaths, the Nightray family was attending a second Ceremony held in Oz Vessalius' favor, "to make up for his failure of a first," writes his uncle on March 2__nd__, 1900."_

"_Along with these accounts is the famous Lamontre Fils Photograph. The photograph, incredibly well-known on its own for containing the last known images of Duke Vessalius and many of the Nightray children, ostensibly also contains in the image of Oz Vessalius. He—if it is indeed him—is very child-like in appearance, posed in the center of the image next to his uncle, his sister, other members of nobility, and a number of unknown individuals. The photo is considered the strongest evidence of the boy's continued survival up until March 18__th__, 1900, however many historians still believe it could have been an unidentifiable relative or family friend, since there are other unknown individuals in the photograph."_

"_Theorists accepting these details propose that perhaps Oz Vessalius was preserved using sorcery, an art that was dying out during the boy's lifetime and was, as far as historians can figure, completely lost during the Tragedy of Reveille, when the earthquakes destroyed the cluster residences of the last recorded Coven. Others believe that someone was perhaps tragically successful in killing the boy during the period of his execution warrant. Supporters of both these theories cite the immediate stop of all sightings of Oz Vessalius following the March 18__th__ announcement."_

"_While these are typically some of the prevailing theories today, people of the times looked to what Collin Snow had said. After the Tragedy of Reveille, Snow claimed that Zai had not only murdered his son and his brother as Snow himself had predicted, Zai had used the rumors of his late son's continued survival to attempt to set him up as a scapegoat by releasing a false execution warrant. Snow's reasoning was that, since this sort of disaster was unnatural and had happened twice under two different governments, the people in power of their country must have some sort of dangerous weapon that they've mishandled again, and that to escape the blame for their own faults they accused a dead child. And... his claim worked."_

"_Yeah, tips for people out there: don't commit child abuse. It's amazing how angry you can make some people by getting accused of it, and if Oz Vessalius is any indication, it's even worse for post-mortem child abuse."_

"_Not, actually, that Zai was alive to direct this anger on or anything. It's suspected he died on the 18th, although no one quite knows how. His body was found several months later in the Great Hole at Sablier, strangely preserved but misshapen. No, Snow instead directed the anger that would have been for Zai and aimed it at the Dukedoms as a whole. The Dukedoms, as it was quickly revealed, had been running an organization called Pandora, and while nobody really knew what this organization did, it became clear that it was partially militant and it had collectively wielded control over most political powers in the country. There were also hints that they had been conducting experiments to study the causes of the first Tragedy, and this did NOT make people happy."_

"_In_deed._ From the public's perspective, people were suffering and the Dukes' conspiracies and power plays were the cause of it. They had just wrecked the country, and they had the nerve to initially try to blame it on a murdered, long-dead child. Thereafter, the Intransigence Movement grew in record numbers, and Oz Vessalius became a figurehead of their cause, an innocent martyred at the hands of what they perceived to be the wicked Dukedoms' corrupt political games."_

"_Which is a rather bizarre and ironic thing, considering he was next in line to be one of the Dukes himself."_

"_Things finally hit their boiling point in the early months of 1901, when the __Intransigence__ Movement, armed with popular support, finally succeeded in capturing the surviving members of the Dukedoms and exiling those who refused to step down from their positions of power. And for a while, the Movement was quite happy with itself…until Sable was invaded in May of 1901, because as it turned out, Idvitz, Soureales, and the Empire of Lucya were taking Snow completely seriously in his claim that the rulers of Sable all controlled some sort of land-wrecking superweapon."*_

"_And that, listeners, is how a publicity feud between a vengeful reporter and a noble with poor family relationships became one of the deciding factors that lead us into next week's podcast topic, the Great Tousterre War.* Join us next week on _Things You Overlooked in History Class, _or stick around as we respond to some listener emails."_

* * *

AN: *Clears throat* I believe this is, as the meme goes:

Me: I'm going to write a cute story to get over my sad feelings about the ending of Pandora Hearts.

Me: It'll have heartwarming family scenes, and cute fuzzy bunnies being dressed up and hidden inside mansions-turned-museums.

Me:

Me: *creates World War as backstory, gives Alice an addict for a mom*

On a completely different note, I really, really wanted to fit in some of the crazier theories people must have come up with to explain Oz, but I ended up not being able to do that without breaking the flow of the "podcast." In particular, I regret cutting out the bit talking about the believer in the successful assassination theory that once sarcastically responded "time traveling zombies" to people who kept asking her to explain _The_ _Lamontre Fils Photograph. _It was beautiful, and I'm sorry I couldn't fit it in.

Also, I'm sorry for the lack of Alice and somewhat Gilbert. But, since Alice was kind of a ghost of someone who lived 100 years previous, there would have been no record of her besides the photograph. And Gilbert was just an adoptive child of the Nightrays. Neither of the things that made him important to us (his connection to Oz and the others) or to Pandora (his contract with Raven) would have been known to the general public. They don't even know Gilbert Nightray was the same person as the servant-boy Gilbert of the Vessalius'.

*In European aristocracy, from which the aristocracy in _Pandora Hearts_ is clearly modeled, the firstborn son usually takes on a "courtesy title," allowing him to use his father's next highest title (to clarify, a titled individual has their major title, and all titles beneath that one as well. A Duke is also a Marquis, an Earl/Count, and a Viscount—all at the same time). So if the head of a family was a Duke, his firstborn son would be a Marquis until his father's death, upon which he would inherit the head of the family's title. However, the firstborn son does not automatically seem to get preference in _Pandora Hearts _(Oscar inherits, despite being the younger brother, and Gilbert ends up a contender for inheriting the Nightray name despite being adopted due to his contract with Raven), and so instead I assume it goes to an heir chosen by the head of the family. Oscar giving Oz the courtesy title typical of a Duke's son does not only indicate he has fully accepted Oz as his heir, it means he feels comfortable enough with this fact to give Oz all the aristocratic rights and entitlements Oscar's own son would have had.

*A number of new terms appear in this chapter, as we are introduced to the exact titles of the Dukedoms. For the most part, Mochizuki-sensei avoids mentioning the names of places and exact dates, only giving names to key settings that will act as stages for key character events. This is probably why she never actually defines the titles of the aristocracy besides making it clear that the four main families are Dukedoms. However, being Dukedoms, there must be actual land they are supposedly in control of, land that would give names to their titles. The idea will be further explored later on, but three show up here: the Head of Vessalius family (Oscar) is officially titled the Duke of Flambeau, the Vessalius' heir (Oz) is the Marquis de Loupe, and the Head of the Barmas (Rufus) is the Duke of Paondronte.

_*_Sharp readers will realize that this is what Oz was wearing when he and Alice reunite with Gilbert 100 years later.

*If you remember, Isla Yura was supposedly sent by his country to investigate more about the strange powers that caused the Tragedy of Sablier 100 years before the series' canon time. After the mysterious death of their ambassador, followed by the Tragedy of Reveille, I figure they probably would have taken advantage of the country's severely weakened state to take a… more hands-on approach.

*Tous-Terre is French for "All Land." It's basically the PH version of the Great War (or, as we in the States call it, World War I).


	6. Advance V: Cinderella

I think I've mentioned this in replies to reviewers, but never on the actual fic. I made a mistake explaining who Hedia was the reincarnation of, and I won't be doing it again. If more reincarnated characters do appear, I won't explain who's who until the very end of this, wherever that will be.

Also, thank you to the reviewers! You all make me feel like a queen.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance V: ~Cinderella~_

After a day of not seeing any activity on the outside, Mr. Wilde was getting worried.

He tried calling the Lymans' phone, but got no answer. He tried knocking, but got no reply. He even (trying not to think about how creepy he was being) tried peeking through their window, but the curtains were drawn and the room was unlit behind them. He was considering talking to the landlord to get her to open their front door for him, but the other time he'd done that had only brought worse consequences for all of them.

Strong little Edith, a tough nut to crack all on her own, was in the pitiable situation of looking after her even-more pitiable mother. Her situation broke his heart, and he felt helpless whenever something like this occurred.

He'd watched as the child's grandparents stole her away every month, sending her to tea parties and concert halls and art galleries and other places of 'proper education.' And yet somehow, despite all their supposed care, they kept dumping her back here when they were done.

They were every bit the concerned, loving grandparents when he finally got a chance to talk with them. They wanted their granddaughter learning about high culture, music, and art. They had heard she was a great singer, and wanted to set her up with a music tutor. They loved her.

Still every half hour, he left his apartment to bang on their door.

Edith finally heard the knocking when her mp3 player died. She'd been marathoning songs from _1901_ while she packed up the things from their storage space, and it croaked on her right as the first few bars of _Un Fils Prodigue, _Zai Vessalius' villain song, came blasting through her earbuds.

…had that knocking been going on the whole time? Oh no.

Racing to the front door, she opened it, and to her _not_ surprise, Mr. Ashermael Wilde towered over her in the entrance.

"Sorry, Mr. Wilde," Edith said casually. "Didn't hear you. What's up?"

"I was worried and—" He caught sight of the stripped interior and packing boxes in the living room "—are you _going_ somewhere?"

"Yep," she replied flippantly, turning away from him and beginning to stack some of the cardboard boxes she had placed near the entrance. He realized now that she was half-grey with dust. "Oz sent me a letter that he's coming to get me, so I'm packing up."

Mr. Wilde's concern grew. He had heard of this imaginary friend, Oz, many times during Edith's younger years. She often spoke of him more like a child's comfort toy than a real human being. "Really?—are, are you sure?"

She glared in response and slipped a hand down the pockets of her apron, grabbing something and forcing it into his hands.

He took it, examining the item. It was an envelope—probably the same one he'd seen the postman deliver three days ago.

Edith Lyman, 517 Baum St., Apt 19. Dyne.* Well, there was no mistake of the receiver. And the return address…

"Someone from Sable?" he questioned in surprise. "Since when do any of them want anything to do with any of us?"

"The name! The letter!"

"Okay, okay." He turned his attention back to the return address.

_Oz Tale_

_Ely House, Jubilee Drive_

_TF9-1FJ, Carillon_

_Sable_

He wanted to say that the name sounded totally made up, but knew it would only make Edith more cross with him. If this Oz kid was real, he felt bad for him.

The letter inside was a simple note, barely a few words. The person asked if "Alice" remembered them, and requested that if she did, to please contact them using an email provided to help set up a meeting place so they could see each other again. They then told "Alice" that "Gil" was waiting to see them.

All in all, the message looked to him like it was coded, extremely creepy, or both.

Edith, however, wouldn't hear of it.

"Of course it's Oz!" She proclaimed proudly. "It's his job to find me!"

"But," he said, trying to dissuade her, "But what if it isn't? Have you answered them back? What if it's just some creepy person trying to meet you?"

Edith looked at him flatly. "It's not." She said, in a tone that was done arguing.

He sighed. "Well, what are you packing for?"

"I'm leaving, duh. Oz is going to help me, and we're going to figure out how to get mom away from my grandparents. And meet Seaweedhead."

Mr. Wilde looked at her, at the boxes, and at all the things that had been removed from the walls. "Even your mother's things?"

She bit on his words hotly, which in hindsight he should have expected. "You think I would get out of here and not take Mom with me? Who _does_ that? Who besides my grandparents _does_ that?"*

* * *

Outside, Oz and Vincent stared up at the apartment building, taking in the cheerful yellow walls, the Lucien-style metal work and Idvitzen verandas covered in potted plants.

"I thought you said they were struggling with money," Oz finally commented, looking down at the address on his phone.

"They are," Vincent grit out. He still wasn't too fond of Alice, and despite disagreeing with him on the matter, Oz understood why. "Her grandparents pay for the apartment."

Their peace was disturbed by some shouting on the upper floor's veranda. Looking up, they saw a large man rush backwards out of one of the doors to the apartments.

"Umm…" Oz hummed out loud.

Directly after him was a black-haired girl with cowlicks like cat ears. She caught sight of them and yelled victoriously, pumping her fists in the air. The man next to her covered his ears.

"Oz! Oz!" She jumped up and down and finally onto the wall of the veranda before the man grabbed her by the collar and pulled her down.

"Do you want to kill yourself!?"

"Are they family or a comedy duo?" Vincent deadpanned, flat expression matched only by his voice.

By then, the girl had escaped the man's grasp and took off for the stairs, skipping three at a time all the way to the ground. She rushed over, completely ignoring Vincent, and tackled Oz to the pavement.

"It's been long enough, idiot manservant!" She laughed, hugging him around the middle.

Oz grinned, Vincent rolled his eyes, and the man on the upper balcony shook his head in amazement.

* * *

"So," said Wilde, placing cups of coffee in front of his guests, "How do you know Edith again?"

"Oh, we met… a long time ago," said the younger blonde of his guests, Oz, distantly. He had been exuberant and excited until he'd gotten a closer look at Wilde, who'd invited them into his apartment since Edith had already stripped hers bare. After that, Oz seemed to have an uncomfortable tendency to stare at him with his large garnet eyes, both of them wide and disbelieving. "Really, we're old friends. Haven't seen each other in a while, though." Oz finally took his eyes off him and beamed at Edith.

Edith seemed to squirm excitedly under his gaze.

"So your parents really named you Oz?" he asked again, drawing back the attention of those bizarre eyes.

"…no," said Oz, shortly. "But it's…it's my name, really. My birth name is Lewis."

Wilde considered this, thinking back to history lessons he'd had in college. "Well, you do look like him."

The boy looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Ada Vessalius was my great-grandmother."

"I can't imagine what growing up must've been like, then," Wilde said, trying to create small talk. "Looking like Oz Vessalius would be bad enough over here, what with the anti-Sablen sentiment still in a lot of the older folk, but in Sable itself? You must get double takes on the street all the time."

"Sometimes," Oz agreed. He was smiling faintly, and Wilde thought he looked so light then that if he tried to touch him, the boy would float off the seat.

What a strange child, he found himself thinking.

"So," he said out loud, "What's your plan for helping Edith?"

Oz blinked, and looked at Edith. "Helping? Why, what's wrong?"

Edith got up from her separate seat and squished herself onto the armchair with him. "I want your help," she said bluntly. "Well, yours' and Seaweedhead's, when we meet him. We need to find a place that can help my mom. My grandmother and grandfather won't help her."

The airiness about the boy was gone. Instead, his presence was almost professionally serious. "What does she need help with?"

"She's an alcoholic," Wilde cut in, when it look like Edith was having problems explaining. "And probably a few other things, too. She ran away from home at eighteen and turned up with Edith two years later, asking for help. But they didn't want anything to do with her by then. They agreed to pay for her and her child's expenses if she followed a few rules."

Edith huffed. "I can say it myself you know." She turned to the blonde boy again. "My mom's not a bad person. She just made some really bad decisions early in her life, and keeps screwing up just as badly trying to fix them. And my grandparents have gotten used to controlling everything about us to try and compensate for that. We're totally dependent on them. Mom's always trying to get different jobs to get enough money to leave, but it all ends up 'mysteriously' disappearing," she muttered. "What Mom really needs is to go into rehab, but somehow it never goes through. I don't know what she does when she leaves for days, and I don't trust things to go smoothly here without me."

"Well, of course we'll do something," Oz said fervently. "Right, Vincent?"

Wilde had been watching Vincent dump his coffee into the nearest potted plant, and seriously doubted he'd heard much of anything.

"What?" Vincent said, looking up. "Oh, sure."

Wilde raised an eyebrow. He didn't know what he just agreed to, did he?

By the impish grin Oz suddenly had, he realized the same. "So it's decided then~! Vincent, take us back to my house!"

"_What!?"_

"Well, we can't leave her mom here by herself."

"Why doesn't _he_ look after her?"

Wilde put his hands up. "Trust me, I've tried! But it's hard to get someone to do something inside their own house, even if it's for their own good."

"But you said sure, Vincent, so that means okay!"

Oz beamed up at Vincent while Edith smirked enchantingly.

Wilde had never seen a nineteen year old give such an accurate 'I'm-too-old-for-this' face.

* * *

"What should I call you?" asked Oz as they approached Vincent's rental car. It was another Mercedes, and he was beginning to think Vincent had a thing for them.

"What do you mean?" his companion asked.

"I mean," Oz said, a little confusedly. "I was born Lewis, but I'm still going by Oz. Like that."

Hearing this, Edith shrugged, smiling brightly with giddiness from leaving. "Since when has that mattered, Oz?" She asked, pulling open one of the back passenger seat doors. "If I'm Alice, then I'm Alice. And if I'm Edith, then I'm Edith. So call me Alice or Edith, it doesn't matter. And if you want to be Oz, Oz, then you can be Oz, and that's all you need."

She slid into the car, and though she couldn't see, he smiled warmly back.

After they were all in the car—and after Vincent spent five whole minutes, to the mockery of Oz, trying to pick 'the perfect time to pull out' into the near-empty road—Edith decided she didn't like the window seat, and slid into the middle to be next to Oz.

"What are you reading?" she asked him, shifting herself more comfortably into the seat.

"_Tome of the Mist King,"_ He said. He closed the book on his thumb and showed it to her, its cover displaying a maze made of hedges and woodland shrubs. "Another friend of mine suggested it to me. It's about a girl who finds the diary of a madman in the woods. It's quite sad, really."

"Then why would you read it?" Edith wrinkled her nose, craning into Oz's personal space to get a better look.

"Just because it's sad doesn't mean you can't like it," he replied. He looked at her like this wasn't a contradictory statement, opened the book again to the page his thumb was on, and began to read again.

"Huh," she said. She looked over at her mother sitting in the front passenger's seat. "I guess I can understand that."

After a half hour, however, no one was pondering appreciations of sadness, metaphorical or otherwise (although Vincent was possibly pondering very literal feelings of rage), because Edith had put her copy of the musical _1901_ into the car's DVD player and she and Oz spent the entire ride laughing hysterically and singing with deliberate awfulness from the back.

* * *

AN: Oz: "Of course we'll do something. Right Vincent?" Vincent: *pours coffee provided by his host out, hears nothing*

Also, Vincent is pretty much me. I was born in this era and _still_ don't like cars. But I'm pretty sure Edith's and Oz's terrible impromptu karaoke session made it worse.

This is kind of a "connector" chapter, really. Unlike with Oz's entering chapters, with his parents getting two to focus on them and their reactions, Edith's mom isn't awake right now, doesn't hold a lot of power over whether or not Edith is going anywhere, and isn't being counted on in the decision-making progress. Which maybe might be a problem, who knows? Oh wait. I do.

Either way, we really didn't need to spend as much time in Idvitz as we did (and will be) spending in Oz's home of Carillon or Reveille.

*517 Baum Street, Apt. 19, the address of the Lyman family, is a reference to the date the Wizard of Oz was published by Lyman Frank Baum: May 17th, 1900. Dyne comes from another pen-name Baum wrote under, which will be mentioned more later.

*Yes, Edith, but another question is - what child makes decisions like that for her mother?


	7. Advance VI: Bunraku

To Mel/singingforthepromises: Thank you for such a wonderful review! I'm happy you loved the podcast, and that I've inspired headcanons! (Psst - Ryoura loves headcanons, if you want to talk hcs you should talk with her).

Sadly, I will not be re-writing the epilogue scene of Pandora Hearts. I really don't think I could do it justice, and after all, everyone's already read that scene and pretty much knows what happened, so re-writing it in prose is pretty much just contesting with Mochijun in a 'who's who of who can bring the feels' competition (I'd lose). Instead, in this last chapter before we reunite with our newly reunited trio, we'll be meeting some characters we haven't spent much time with just yet.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance VI: ~Bunraku~_

There was thunder, loud and clear as a pounding Ethartan drum canon, right outside the window. It shook her from her slumber, flashes of white turning all she saw outside to negative images.

She was in Lewis' room, and it was still dark. The bundle of blankets she'd slept in had been rolled up from the ground on which they had been flattened into a cocoon around her. She hadn't wanted the guest room, and he hadn't wanted to take the bed if she was staying in his, so they had both, in fits of childish stubbornness, slept on the ground that night.

Lewis wasn't sleeping either. In fact, he wasn't even in the other heap of blankets next to her. Where his small body should have been was a deflated bubble of quilts and comforters, and in her immediate range of vision she could see no trace of where he had gone.

She sat up to get a better look around the room, gazing at the bookshelves, the clocks, the old paintings, the strange collection of antique toys her friend was partial to. All were colored with a shade of blue or shadow in the occasional flickers of white sky light.

The bedroom door was open, and it occurred to her that perhaps he had gone to use the bathroom.

She shrugged, deciding she would likely not get back to sleep, and crawled over to her friend's book shelf of children's stories to entertain herself. But as soon as she selected one, the doorway was occupied again.

Lewis was paused in the doorway, staring at her, his face contorted with holding back hysterical tears and utterly distraught.

"What's wrong?" she asked, worried for him and for herself. Lewis was always such a happy and cheerful friend. She couldn't imagine what had made him so upset.

"Where am I?" he demanded in a whisper. "What's going on here?"

She stared at him, utterly at a loss.

"It…what?"

"Where am I?" he demanded again. "Where have they taken us? Where's my sister?" Crystalline tears began leaking from his carnelian eyes. She would never admit it for fear of being teased by others in their class, but she'd always thought his eyes were beautiful. "Where's my _mother?"_

"She's…uh," she responded, looking between Lewis and the open doorway. "She's… in the next room?"

As soon as her words were out of her mouth, he dashed out of the room and (she assumed) into the master bedroom next door. She got up, tripping once on her blankets, and followed, unsure exactly what was causing her friend's bizarre behavior.

But he had, again, paused in the doorway. He turned to her angrily, tears still dripping despite his obvious attempts to fight them. "Who are these people? Where's my _mother?_"

She was taken aback. "But that is your—"

"Ehmmmn…" came a sleepy groan from the king-sized bed in the room. One of the figures under its blankets rolled and stretched its arms. It sat up, messy blonde hair falling out of its unmade bun—Mrs. Tale.

"Lewis…?" she questioned groggily as she sat up, her eyes not even properly open. "What's wrong, baby? Are you hurt?"

Her son did not answer her, instead turning to their guest again. "Who are they?" he demanded.

At that, Mrs. Tale's eyes flew open wide, green orbs grey in the gloom of the room. She slipped out of bed and made her way over to them, kneeling down to their eye level when she was finally there. She tried to put her hands on her son's shoulders, but Lewis, in response, backed away.

"Lewis?" Mrs. Tale asked again, quieter but with more urgency. "Lewis, what's wrong?"

He shook his head, backing up further.

"Did something happen?" The woman, now becoming frantic, turned to their guest.

"I-I don't know. He was like this when I woke up," she replied, now beginning to cry herself from shock and fear for her friend.

"Lewis," Mrs. Tale said again, her tone now more authoritative, focusing on her son who had backed up further down the hallway. "Lewis, come here. Momma's going to take you back to bed, alright? So you and your friend can get some sleep. Growing children shouldn't be up this late."

At this point, Mr. Tale had begun to stir as well.

"And your father's going to join us, isn't that nice?" the woman added, as a quiet "Bea, what?" came from behind her.

The word 'father,' however, seemed to be a kind of tipping point. Lewis turned around and shot down the hallway, turning onto the staircase and quickly becoming lost from sight in the bowels of the labyrinthine house.

They found him the next morning, his small nine-year-old form asleep and hidden beneath the grand piano in the disused ballroom. When they woke him up, he remembered nothing of the previous night.

But Hedia, his most loyal friend and only non-family witness, never forgot.

* * *

It was a misty, humid morning when Hedia biked up Ely Court's main entranceway to return the conservatory key. Lewis had said to give it to his brother, but neither he nor she had known that Anderson would be staying at his university for the weekend, and she thought it best to just return it to the owner instead.

Ely House had always seemed an impressive home to her, with its Empire-style curves and peaks and curving wired gingerbread toping the occasional sharp spike in the roof. With its wide base and towers looming over visitors, it always felt like a presence disproportionally larger than its actual size—which was probably the intent when it was erected. It was built around one hundred and fifty years ago by the Barma family, as Lewis and his father—always a duo of history nerds—were quick to remind her if she asked any questions pertaining to the history of the house. She'd stayed over more times than she could count, her childhood friend Lewis leading her on explorations of the grounds and darting here and there between disused rooms that provided too much space for the single four-person family that lived there.

Despite its somewhat intimidating visage, it had always felt like another home to her, and in her most private dreams she wished it someday would be.

She rang the doorbell twice at the entrance, but it took an unusually long three minutes for anyone to answer.

It was Mr. Tale who answered.

"Hello, Hedia!" he greeted. Despite his cheer, he seemed exhausted.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Tale?" Shouldn't he have been at work?

"Oh, just, complications. Family problems. We all have them sometimes, you know. Well, come in, come in!"

"Oh no, Mr. Tale. I'm just here to return the shop key." She reached into her pocket and took out the electric key card.

"Hedia, don't reject an offering hand," he said, and though his voice was often much quieter, it was times like this that reminded her he grinned in much the same way as his son.

Mr. Tale led her to the family room and sat her down on the couch between the silk pillows and oak side tables. "What do you want to drink?" he asked, opening a minifridge hidden in the TV cabinet. "We haven't got sodas since Mrs. Tale is enforcing a strict decrease on sugar now that the boys are gone for a few days, but I'm sure she'd cave if you really wanted it…"

"Lewis is gone too?" Hedia asked. "Where?"

"Oh," he said offhandedly, still focusing on the contents of the fridge, "Oz's off getting some old friends together over in Jouet. I think they said something about meeting up at some old Vessalius mansion to talk history?"

"…Oz?"

He froze, still not turning around. "Well… I guess it's the name he's decided on? I mean, it's what he wants to be called, so—"

"You're _encouraging_ that?" Hedia shouted, standing up from the couch in a sudden rage. "After all that stuff he went through, he's _backsliding? _And you're _okay_ with that?"

"Hedia—"

"No!" she exclaimed. "This is terrible! How can you be so calm!?"

"Hedia," he said, turning around to her and trying to maintain his cool, "Maybe, before you start getting angry, you should talk to him when he gets back…"

"I'm _already_ angry!" She cried, putting a foot forward antagonistically.

"What all the… loud talking for in?"

The two of them froze up as another person—one Hedia had never seen before—peered around the doorway leading from the outdoor loggia.

"Nothing, dear Elaine. Just a difference of opinion."

"In…" there was a pause, like the speaker had forgotten her words, "_my_ opinion, differences… that are not 'nothing,'" the woman finally enunciated brokenly as she came fully into view. She was unusually tall—probably having several inches over Mr. Tale in height—with long, dark, curly hair reaching down to her elbows. She wore a simple t-shit and jeans, which looked like they were stained with paint.

"You look like you've been working hard," Mr. Tale commented lightly.

"It is…fun. I have not… paint? Since school. It... nice. I am awake. I am not asleep."

"We'll be sure to show Edith, then, when she returns."

Elaine immediately dropped her cheerful expression, ducking out of the room faster than Mr. Tale could call out to question what was wrong.

He sighed, looking back at Hedia. "'Tis the season of emotional drama in this house, for sure."

"A Sourealen?" Hedia questioned, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head in the direction of the Loggia door.

"One of Oz's friends' mothers. She actually lives in Idvitz, but her family's from Soureales. Go easy on her, this isn't exactly her first language."

Hedia's eyes flared again at "Oz," but she sat this one out, trying to maintain her briefly-restored composure. "What's she doing here?"

"Ehh," said the man, sitting down as well on a nearby foot rest. "She's in a spot of trouble she hasn't been able to pull herself out of, and her daughter—one of the people in Oz's newfound little history club—didn't want her to be left alone. That's pretty much the entire story for now, although I get the feeling she's plotting something, to be honest." Elaine had already tried to snatch the silverware when left alone and fallen sick twice, which was why Mrs. Tale was constantly trying to direct her attention to constructive projects like painting, but Hedia didn't need to know that.

"Idvitz? That's a pretty long way to go from Jouet. Lewis didn't say anything about any continent-wide literary meeting…" Had the reemergence of "Oz" started happening _before_ they last saw each other? Was that why Lewis hadn't thought to tell her about this, because "Oz" was the one who set it up? How long had she been missing this?

What were the symptoms and treatments for relapses again?

She stood up very suddenly, surprising Mr. Tale. "Thank you for your time, sir," she said courteously, grabbing her purse. "But I've got to get to the library. There's a research project I need to deal with."

"Oh, well," said Mr. Tale, surprised at her sudden decision for departure. "I'll walk to towards the door. And, and—" he sighed, "If you want to talk to _Oz,_" he added with emphasis, defending his child's choice, "He should be back with his friends the day after tomorrow."

At his words, there was a strangled sort of cry from down the hall.

"What the—" Mr. Tale turned, marching towards the sound. Hedia followed in his wake, curious against her will of the drama unfolding in the household. "Beatrix? Elaine? Is everything all right?"

The noise was coming from the empty ballroom. When she entered, Hedia was surprised to see that the ground was covered in tarps and sheets, blocking the polished wooden floor from the damage of several dozen painted canvases, each depicting landscapes or birds. Sitting among the tarps and paints was Elaine, crouched in the center of the tarps and hugging her knees.

When their footsteps came to a stop in the wide entranceway the woman looked up, dark grey eyes maddeningly wide. "Please," she begged, and Hedia saw that she was crying. The woman untangled her arms from her legs and began to struggle over to them on her knees, smearing the paint on the tarp in long streaks. Her words came out in long strings, unbroken and desperate._"Bitte, bitte, schickt Edith nicht zurück! Schickt mich zurück, es ist meine Schuld, aber bitte schickt Edith nicht mit mir—"*_

"Hedia," Mr. Tale said firmly, leaning down to grasp at Elaine's hands, "I think it's time for you to go."

The girl nodded and quickly left the house.

Meanwhile, fifty miles away on the grounds of an old mansion called _Orlueur_, three old souls, one young in body, one young in spirit and one young in mind, met for the first time in one hundred and fifteen years.

* * *

AN: I just really wanted to explore the idea of Hedia and "Lewis's" relationship.

Oz has chosen to integrate the different parts of him back together as best he can, much like he did in the manga with "Oz Vessalius" and "Oz the B-Rabbit" to become "Just Oz." I think that Hedia (who has thought of herself, much like Oz's brother Anderson, as Oz's protector _from_ "Oz" for a very long time) would have to struggle with herself to accept Oz's choice. Particularly since she's long been scared that "Oz" will one day completely eclipse "Lewis."

Her opinions on "Oz" were hinted at in her first appearance. Mr. West continuously calling Lewis "Oz" makes her angry, because she fears it could cause a relapse.

Details:

*Ely House is based off the Lockwood–Mathews Mansion in Connecticut, US. I just googled some period mansions and picked which ones I liked and which ones might fit the aesthetics of Pandora Hearts. The name "Ely" comes from one of the inspirations for Lamontre, the main Vessalius estate (which will be appearing later in this story), Insole Court, Cardiff, which was initially called "Ely Court." The other inspiration for Lamontre is Biltmore Mansion, because... google it. Google it and tell me that isn't a French palace somehow dropped in North Carolina. I spent way more time than I should have looking at exteriors and wondering how it existed. In _North Carolina._

*"Newfound little history club" is the best euphemism for "newly-rediscovered past-life besties" ever, Richard. Never change.

*This should say something along the lines of "Please, please don't send Edith back. Send me back, it's my fault, but please don't send Edith back with me—" but I don't speak German so Google translate was my passive-aggressive friend through all of this that I had to bully and constantly translate and re-translate into submission. If you see something wrong with it (and there probably _is_ something wrong with it) please message me and I will do my best to correct it.

Edit: Thank you to Whisperwind for correcting the German dialogue! Sorry for not editing this thank you in earlier. And I agree, I who am of poor multilingual skills am at the mercy of a tyrannical translation troll.


	8. Advance VII: Avalon

We've finally arrived at _completely_ post-canon Pandora Hearts. I know some people will probably be disappointed, but I didn't write Vincent's death or Gilbert, Oz, and Edith's reunion in here. As I've said before, I seriously doubt I could match up to Mochizuki Jun for impact.

Mel/singingforthepromises: I've had several reviews mentioning how, in the previous chapter, they originally thought the cold opening was about Edith. I did that on purpose. Confusion sucks a reader in, after all, trying to find some way to clarify - and PH used this technique several times on its own flashbacks.

Interestingly, Hedia's insistence that Oz is backsliding is not because "Lewis" had finally distanced himself from "Oz," but rather he simply hadn't confided in his family or friends most of what he found out about himself. He'd had started putting his identities together long before he came out and said he wanted to return to his old name. And because he'd started putting himself back together, the appearances of 'Oz,' or rather, the episodes in which his alternating memories dramatically changed his state of mind, became less, because he as 'Lewis' was becoming more aware and accepting of those memories. Eventually, he integrated 'Oz' into who he is, and lost the divide between "Lewis" and "Oz" altogether. And finding proof that he wasn't crazy - meeting Vincent, and finding Alice and Gilbert again - helped seal any remaining cracks.

The downside of this is that, to everyone who knew him, it just looks like Lewis went from being fine to bringing "Oz" back after two years of silence. Hedia may be wrong, but she has every right to be worried.

Finally, I'd like to announce that I'll be updating the next chapter this Friday, instead of the day-after-next pattern like I've been doing. My break's ended, which has significantly cut down my writing and researching time for this fic. But I refuse to let myself slip behind!

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance VII: ~Avalon~*_

Inside her stateroom, like the center doll inside some sort of Fabergé matryoshka, the Queen of Sable sat signing articles of laws that had been sent to her earlier in the hour. Her attendants stood next to her, silent and ready.

A knock came on the door. It opened, and a man in uniform walked in and flattened his back against it.

"Gilbert Baskerville-Nightray to see you, your majesty."

The Queen nodded. Her attendants did not move.

The man that walked in following this address was young-looking. He had thin eyes with golden irises, prominent cheeks and hair that had never been tame as long as she could remember.

There was only one thing in the world that had tamed him, and he allowed it do so willingly. Never again, no matter whose orders, would another so captivated his will.

He bowed to her, but out of respect and fondness, and nothing more. He still remembered her as the little girl from her childhood, whom he had seen come into this world, whom he had seen grow, and whom he would likely see go out.

"So you're resigning," she finally said to him.

He stayed in his straight-backed stance, but she could have sworn he swallowed with some difficulty. She maintained the silence for a minute, the stillness, and many things were said across that soundless void.

Eventually, she put her pen down. She put her hands in her lap. She adjusted herself to face him.

"You've found what you've been looking for, then?"

For she had been told. She had been told about his reasons, his vows. She had been told what judgement day had caused this man to walk the earth.

He didn't respond.

The Queen paused, staring at him with majestic poise. She was an old woman, and he a young man, and yet she had known him all of his life.

"You may go," she said. And he bowed out, impossibly old while she so very young.

* * *

"This is always my favorite part of the trip," Oz said, leaning his head over the rail so that the tips of his sunny hair caught the breeze and the intense dying firelight of the sun. "I love watching for porpoises and dolphins in the water. Anderson and I used to make a game out of it, before we had to take it every week to school. I think he got tired of it, after a while."

Next to him, Edith and Gilbert, at each of his sides, watched the sun set golden over the Repos Strait. Edith seemed to be doing her best to keep her eyes open, her arms draped over the railing and her head half on Oz's shoulder.

"I think I can understand getting tired," she mumbled, her voice muffled partially by her arm.

Gilbert said nothing in response to this, his hand toying with a piece of Oz's hair.* He'd offered to bring her back to where their car and chauffeur was earlier, but she'd resisted.

"Did you call your parents?" he said finally, voice low so only Oz could hear.

The boy nodded. "They're having a bit of a difficult time with Elaine. Maybe we should stop to eat before we head to the house; I think they need more time to prepare her."

Gilbert nodded quietly, continuing to absentmindedly play with Oz's hair, strands ablaze in the gold bouncing off the water.

The ferry shuttered from a shift in the engine, but it seemed Edith was so far gone by then she didn't notice.

"We'll go back next year, right? To Orlueur?" Oz smiled. "And I'll bring those pink fluffy dice Vincent wouldn't let me hang in his Mercedes. I'll put them right in front of the grave."

Oz wasn't looking, but he was pretty sure he heard a chuckle at that.

"Of course, we're going to have to teach you how to drive," Oz added, saying the words so softly most people would assume he was talking to himself.

Gilbert's hand, still in Oz's hair, stilled.

"What?" Oz questioned, but his tone gave him away.

"No."

"You say that _now~_"

"Oz."

"_Lewis?"_

They both jumped at the sound, jostling Edith, to the latter's great displeasure. She moaned slightly before clamping down onto Oz's arm with her hands, trying to force it not to move.

Oz didn't notice the constricting blood flow, he was much to focused on the newcomer.

"Anderson?" Oz said with confusion. "Oh wait," he realized, "Today's Friday, isn't it?" The day he and Anderson usually took the ferry home from their college and/or private boarding school.

"Yeah, it is," his brother said flatly, raising a critical blonde eyebrow to the man absently brushing his little brother's hair with his fingers. "He part of your history group?"

"Mom called and told you about that?"

"I'm kind of pissed that _you_ didn't_, _to be honest." There was definitely an undercurrent of anger as Anderson grit out those words, but with his blue eyes constantly on Gilbert, his anger obviously wasn't focused on Oz. "Who is he?"

"Oh," Oz said, stepping aside a little (forcing Gilbert's hand out of his hair and accidentally jolting Edith again) so nothing was blocking Gilbert from Anderson. "This is Gilbert."

Anderson looked between the two of them. "Gilbert who?"

Gilbert straightened up, attempting to look more like the mature, composed adult he was supposed to be (and not the emotional leech clinging to two fifteen year olds that he'd been acting like for the past few hours). He bowed slightly, never one to forget his manners.

"It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Gilbert Nightray."

Both blonde eyebrows went down this time. "Huh. Really?"

Gilbert nodded. "Ye—_uffgh—_"

A fist was planted in his stomach before withdrawn and replaced with a kick to the back of the knees, knocking Gil flat. "I don't care WHO you are, you _creep, _but you could at least have the decency to not _lie_ to me! Keep your pedophile hands off my little brother!"

Anderson raised a hand to hit him between the shoulder blades, but Gil grabbed it and twisted his arm, knocking him on his back. He then pinned both of Anderson's arms above his head while he was still on the ground.

Oz, openmouthed and watching the small battle with confusion on the actions of both parties, stayed at the periphery of their fight so as not to get hit by the many flailing limbs. "Andy, this really isn't what you're assuming," he tried, attempting to placate his angry older sibling. "It'd be better if you cooled down…"

"Stay out of this, Shorty!" Anderson yelled, struggling to kick Gil with his legs while still on his back. He looked something like an upside-down turtle trying to right itself. "You're the one who fell for this guy's act with such an obviously fake name!"

"I-It's not," said Gilbert, trying to recompose himself but failing as he kept dodging Anderson's feet, "it's not like that! That really is my name!"

"Yeah right! I've had enough asshats trying to screw with my brother's head and find a trigger to know the difference!"

Oz exhaled deeply out his nose, staring at the two on the ground with eyes wide with exasperation and boldly fighting the urge to apply his hand to his face. "Why do I feel like this has happened before…?" He shook Edith gently to wake her up. "Come on, E. We've got to stop these two idiots before somebody calls the crew and gets us banned."

* * *

In the end, all they did was end up taking the fight to Ely House. It was not the homecoming Beatrix or Richard had imagined, in all honesty.

"MOM!" Anderson's scream was the first thing they heard, echoing from the front hallway and into the dining room where they'd been setting for their guests. "Lewis brought a pedophile home! I _demand_ you evict him!"

"Me or the pedophile?" came their youngest son's voice, sounding like he'd had gotten tired of trying to stop his brother's tiff with their guests and decided to taunt him for it instead.

"Oz! I haven't even _met _your parents yet, don't encourage this!"

"Don't call him Oz!"

Richard and Beatrix stilled from where they were setting the drinking glasses and looked up straight into each other's eyes. Both looked like they expected nothing less.

"Our boys are home." Beatrix announced dryly.

"Our boys are home," her husband agreed. They put down the things in their hands (the last napkins and forks respectively) and went to greet their children in the entrance hall.

The girl Edith was the first to acknowledge their presence. She sniffed the air when they got closer. "Smells like meat," she announced excitedly.

"Quit the drooling, stupid rabbit. We're guests." That came from the unknown of the group, a tall dark man with golden eyes in a pristine suit.

Anderson growled something along the lines of "can't even treat his own friends nicely," while Edith stopped bouncing and stared at the man.

"Wha—? But I thought Oz—"* The Tale parents watched as she looked between the man and their youngest son, confusedly.

The tall man saw this, and his annoyance faded to a troubled look. "I suppose—sorry, then." He turned away, which coincidentally let his eyes land on them.

Beatrix cleared her throat, and the squabbling ones went silent as Oz glided over and gave them both a hug. Anderson, blushing and glaring over his shoulder at the tall man, eventually went and did the same.

"Now," Richard finally said, trying to keep the tone light, "What's this about a pedophile?"

Their youngest son groaned and this time really did put his hand to his face.

"This guy's a creep, Dad!" Anderson accused, readjusting the weight of his travel bag over his shoulder. "He keeps calling himself Gilbert Nightray, and Lewis _Oz_. And he won't _leave._"

"That's because he's our guest," Beatrix replied, "Oz called ahead of time. Gilbert here has just recently moved apartments, and his things won't be in Carillon until Sunday."

Oz, despite being the one who told them this, sent a questioning look towards the guest in question.

"I don't _care_ if he's our guest, that's not what I'm ta—_Oz?"_

Both parents winced, Richard quietly muttering _"Oh, boy. Not this again."_ That should have come out more slowly.

"_You're _doing it TOO?" Anderson gaped at them like they'd just confessed to deliberately running over a homeless person.

"Andy," Beatrix said, trying to intervene as she saw the rage building on her eldest's face. "Andy, we need to have a _long_ talk, and I have a feeling you might not want to listen right now." Anderson looked like he wanted to retort, but she charged right through his words. "So I think we should instead have dinner, and do all the talking we need afterwards."

"As if I want to eat with any of _them!"_ He thrust a pointing finger towards Edith and Gilbert.

Beatrix somehow rose from her short stature in anger. _"Anderson!"_

There was quiet.

"We'll be eating in the dining room, this time," she said to her son coldly. "Put your bag on the stairs, you can bring it up later."

Beatrix turned on her heels and walked down the hallway. Richard, left behind for a minute, wrapped an arm around Oz's shoulders. He didn't think the boy noticed, but his youngest was shaking slightly.

"Come on, Bud," he said gently. He grinned, though it came off as fabricated. "Food makes everything better!"

"I hear _that_!" The girl Edith called, looping her own arm through Oz's limply hanging own. Behind the two was the tall man, Gilbert, who silently put a comforting hand on the back of Oz's head.

From the dining room, they heard a cry. "OKAY, NOW WHO'S _THIS_ WOMAN?" and then "NOPE. I'M DONE. GOODNIGHT." And down the hallway, several doors slammed one after the other.

Richard tried to be positive. "Well, at least dinner will be quieter now."

* * *

AN: I did tell you some of these hints wouldn't be subtle. If you can't figure out who some of these people are, I'm going to be sad. XD And Gil, you're technically over two hundred years old by now and you can't stop petting a fifteen year old boy, you're going to need way better proof than "I'm not, I promise" to convince Oz's bro you're not a creep.

But I still had fun with this! Anderson's fun to write. He's like a simmering volcano of overprotective brother-ness and rage. Unfortunately, he's not good at controlling that rage, and so he lashes out at pretty much everybody. Bad Anderson! No dinner for you! (But he doesn't want it anyway, he nope'd right out of there). Surprisingly, though, his motives for anger actually make him very similar to Edith and Hedia in some ways, Hedia more obviously then Edith.

*Each chapter's name is themed off of who's in it. Oz has dolls, Hedia has puppets, Alice/Edith has princesses (due to the fact that in-story, she shares many gothic princess tropes), and now the trio united have paradises (Avalon being the old English idea of paradise featured in the Arthurian legends).

*There have been several moments in the manga where Gil touches Oz for no reason, including some where he just seems to subconsciously play with Oz's hair. It seems to be more like a comfort mechanism when Gil's worried, proof that Oz actually _is_ there and isn't about to disappear again for another ten years. So I had Gil do it here. Too bad it makes him look creepy (he doesn't even have the "he's my master" excuse anymore)... actually, now that I think about it, the trio as a whole are all very touchy in the manga, aren't they? And the Tales are all "very huggy people," as the meme goes, so they'll probably fit in well.

*Edith doesn't answer to the "stupid rabbit" moniker because, as clearly evident from the Oz comment, she doesn't really remember ever taking on the role as B-Rabbit. In her mind, that is, and always has been, Oz. And Gil realizes this after saying it, which is why he reacts so poorly - it's easy, when she's drooling over meat and Oz is teasing people, to forget that things have changed - that _they_ have changed.


	9. Advance VIII: Valhalla

Wow, you guys really picked up on that! Wouldn't it just be the best troll if our new character was actually this complete stranger? XD

This time, the members of the Tale family are all like the quarterback in a football huddle, except not really and I don't watch football.

Warning! Anderson is a potty mouth. Seriously. Somebody grab a soap bar; he's like 95% the reason why this fic is rated T.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance VIII: Valhalla_

Dinner was indeed a fairly quiet affair, if awkwardly so. Gilbert, at least, seemed to have problems understanding where he should look half the time, always appearing slightly lost. Richard did his best to be friendly with the man, despite how he was introduced, and Beatrix seemed to hold some sort of private amusement in Gilbert's actions, though she rarely told him the cause of such quiet mirth. She was, Gilbert caught himself thinking often, very much like her youngest son that way.

Being around Ali-Edith and Oz was like being thrown back into a different era. Here he was, eating with them at a long, done up dining table in a Dukian mansion, trying to keep Oz from making him look too bad in front of others and Edith from inhaling her fork.

But then there were the obvious differences.

"Oz has told me you're a wonderful chef, Gilbert," said Richard to him from his place at the head of the table.

"_Rea_lly?" Beatrix smiled and raised two perfect blonde eyebrows, and Gilbert was intensely reminded of all the astounding things Oz had gotten away with when they were children, armed with that smile. "Well, surely you could spare a few recipes our son likes? Oz's birthday is coming up, and I always do my best to cook his favorites."

There was a quiet groan from someone opposite her end of the table. Next to Gilbert, Edith snorted onto her pork chop.

The smile was still there, but the steel was back in her voice. "Do you have a problem with my cooking, beloved?"

"Not at all, dazzling light of my life," Richard replied, smile struggling not to grow into a smirk, "Your vegetables are always delicious."

Seeing an opportunity to make things worse, Oz stage-whispered next to him, "But Dad, vegetables don't need cooking."

Richard played along, exclaiming in surprise, "Really?"

A clatter of a fork hitting a plate interrupted them. "Well then, boys," She stretched her arms lazily above her head, leaning back into her chair. "I guess, since you're so determined to get yourselves into trouble, I think you can both handle the dishes. Isn't that right, Elaine? Gilbert? Edith?"

Edith's eyes lit up. "Actually, me and Gilbert can do that!" She started grabbing and piling the empty plates near her, balanced them on her left hand and yanked Gilbert out of his chair by the shoulder using his right. She was gentler with her mother, tapping her on the shoulder until she stood. "Right Seaweedhead? Mom? Right."

They shuffled out the hallway towards the kitchen, and a brief period of silence followed their leave.

"Dear me," Beatrix said, chuckling. "We're going to have to teach that girl subtlety if she's going to be sticking around here longer."

Oz just threw a fond look at the door the two left through. "I can't imagine her and subtlety ever meshing beyond mutual enemy relationships." He cleared his throat. "So?"

"'So' alone isn't a proper use of the English language, darling~"

He sighed. "So, what is it you want to talk to me about?"

Richard scooted his chair in, placing his folded hands in front of him on the table. "Well, a couple of things, son. But first, what happened to Vincent? You never mentioned him in any of your calls home."

Oz fiddled with his napkin ring. "He's dead."

His father let in a quick intake of air and his mother gasped.

"It honestly wasn't surprising," Oz said, though his voice was small. "The way he acted that first night—It made sense. Otherwise, why would he come to collect us alone, without Gil?" He was aware that they, he and Edith, were brought in as fail-safes to make sure Gil didn't self-destruct after Vincent passed, presents to bring comfort to Gil and peace of mind to Vincent himself.

"The 'touching' thing—" Oz added, and caught his father's immediately more uncomfortable look. "Despite teasing, it's really nothing." He looked down at his hands. "I… hadn't remembered that there had been a gap like this before, not until I got to Jouet. I mean, I knew there had to have been, because everyone talks about how I disappeared for ten years, but… anyways, Gilbert had waited those ten years too, and I remember that he had this nervous tick of touching that nobody ever openly acknowledged. He did it whenever he was anxious, just little things like touching my hair or my shoulder, probably to assure himself I was real half the time."

His mother, while he talked, moved from the other side of the table to across from Oz, making the three of them a little triangle at the end of the table.

"Elaine's getting worse," Beatrix suddenly shared miserably. "I don't even know what she's been taking for the past few years, but she's had a number of horrible withdraw symptoms and we've had to call the doctor more than once."

"A couple days ago, your friend Hedia was over," Richard picked up, addressing their son, "Er… you might have to have a talk with that one yourself, some time. But in the middle of her leaving, Elaine had a meltdown in the ballroom and begged us to take custody of Edith away from her."

A brief silence fell over the conferencing family, filled shortly after by loud conversation from outside the dining room. _"__Seaweedhead! Hand me the casserole dish!" "What? Are you—!"_ Oz again sent a look towards the door, this time amused.

"Well, you can hardly blame her!" Beatrix defended in a loud whisper, trying to avoid Edith hearing from the kitchen close by. The woman propped up her elbow and leaned her head on her right hand. "She completely lacks any sort of independence, which I find utterly astounding. This, from a woman who ran away at eighteen! She's had the fight completely stomped out of her." Beatrix dropped her right hand to the table with a louder smack than she intended. "We need a game plan. Edith's right, Elaine needs rehab at the very least, but I called her grandparents and there's no way they won't fight us all the way. For some reason, they consider it more of an embarrassment for their daughter to go through rehabilitation than for her to live and probably die like she has been for the past few years. _Disgusting._" She wrinkled her nose, her eyes narrowed at nothing in particular.

"I talked to our law team at work," Richard explained to his son, glancing at his wife in concern, "and they agreed that since Elaine hasn't been ruled by a legal body to be incapable of caring for her child—though honestly, she very well could have been—Elaine has every right to file for a temporary transfer of custody for Edith. The problem is that the grandparents will probably fight that, too."

* * *

"We shouldn't be doing this," Gilbert whispered to himself, back flat against the hallway wall as Edith, next to him, pressed her ear to the dining room door.

"_Shush_, Seaweedhead! They're talking about my mom!"

"They're Oz's parents! We shouldn't be spying on Oz's parents! And on Oz!"

"And here I thought you were some kind of actually cool spy for the queen."

"That's ridiculous! I was not! And don't tell Oz that!"

"I don't know, I think he'd find it funny."

Between pauses in their speech, they became aware that the inside of the dining room was silent.

"Uh—Seaweedhead! Hand me the casserole dish!" Edith said loudly, though there was most definitely no casserole dish with them in the hallway.

"_What?_ Are you—" She slammed on his foot with hers. Luckily, conversation inside the dining room seemed to have picked back up again.

"_What was that for?"_ Gil demanded quietly.

"Oz needed time to talk with his parents," Edith explained obviously, "He'll probably tell us everything they say, but I wanna hear it for myself!" She was again pressing her ear against the door. "And we don't want them to know we're eavesdropping, do we? They already probably think you're enough of a creep as it is."

Suddenly, there was a loud clatter from upstairs. The inside of the dining room went quiet, chairs moved, but from up above them there was a call of, "SORRY! THE DESK'S CENTER OF GRAVITY IS PATHETIC."

Inside the room, Beatrix sighed. "We'd better just clear the rest of the plates off, then."

Edith, dragging Gilbert, scurried back to the kitchen as fast as her legs could carry the two of them.

Some minutes later, when Oz, Edith, and Gilbert were carrying luggage up to the two prepared guest bedrooms (Gilbert had immediately confessed to spying when they were alone, and Edith laughed when Oz said he'd already known they'd been listening outside the door), Anderson came across them outside of his bedroom.

"So they're staying?" he demanded hotly.

In response, Oz turned to him, raising both his eyebrows and the suitcases in his hands.

"Oh, shut up," Anderson grumbled, leaving the wall and walking with them to the guest rooms.

"I didn't say anything."

More grumbling in response.

They followed up the third floor, where the guest rooms were. Gilbert seemed like he was trying to avoid looking at Anderson, while Edith's eyes were darting everywhere, seeming impressed with the ornate hallways and carved ceilings unchanged though repaired since a century ago.

"I feel like…we've been here," she decided finally, her last words more firm. "Yes, that's it. We've been here, haven't we, Oz?"

He nodded to her, one of her suitcases bouncing painfully off his left kneecap as he walked. "I always thought so. This is Carillon, after all, and once owned by Duke Barma."

"Oh…" she mumbled "…Duke Bird-Brain?" she tried the name, as if testing the words for veracity. Despite the heavy weight he was carrying making it difficult, Oz chuckled.

Anderson stopped ahead of them. "These are the ones that have been cleaned, so I assume they're yours." He eyed the two guests with deepest suspicion.

"Whoa," Edith said, poking her head in.

Her room had fabric wallpaper of a deep blue and painted with oriental blossoms of orange and pink. It was small, but it was lit by a Getzan chandelier and had a canopy bed and chaise upholstered in velvet. In a corner near the window, a gilded chinoserie wardrobe stood empty, ready to hold clothes.

Gilbert's looked similar, although more wooden and gothic. There was no chandelier but many wall lamps, and his canopy had no fabric decorating it. Instead there were geometric panels cut into the wall, furniture and ceiling, mostly jagged and ornate spikes.

"A lot of the original furniture was left when we bought this place," Oz explained. "But while Dad likes Dukian aesthetics, Mom likes modern designs. So they compromised, divvied up the rooms, and about half of the old things were sent up here to rooms nobody usually uses. Mom and Dad will be coming up with the sheets in a few minutes."

"I like it," Edith announced, walking into her room and dropping her suitcase on her bed. "It's like living in a museum. I bet a lot of other people like it too."

Gilbert seemed more hesitant, but finally went into his own room and started unpacking his travel case. Oz was about to carry the bag he was holding for Edith into her room when his brother grabbed his hand, lowered the bag to the floor, and dragged him down the hallway several feet until the hallway took a turn and they were out of sight.

Oz tried to rub away the pain in his hand when Anderson finally let go. "What was _that_ for?"

"Does he—I mean—" Anderson swallowed, cornflower eyes staring almost pleadingly into his brother's rose, "Are you really "Oz"?"

His brother looked at him, confusion turning to gentle understanding, and Anderson didn't want to see him look at him that way.

"Do you _really_ believe that man could be Gilbert _Nightray_?" He grabbed his brother and shook a little, trying to wipe that pitying look off his face, trying to wake him from his own delusions. "Lewis! Think! He'd have to be over a hundred years old—"

To the surprise of both of them, Gilbert rounded the corner, carrying his nice suit jacket. "Oz, where can I hang my—"

He stared at them, and they stared at him.

Finally, Anderson snapped.

"Oh my _god!_" he shouted. "What the hell _ARE_ you? What the _fuck_ is your _deal with my brother?_"

"I-I…"

"Anderson, _stop._" That was Oz, and Anderson had rarely heard him so cold. But he wasn't as good as it as their mother, not yet.

"WHY?" The older brother yelled, turning on him and gesturing to Gilbert with an outstretched arm. "So I can go back to watching some creepy _pervert _take advantage of my crazy brother?" He turned back to Gilbert. "I don't CARE what the hell Mom and Dad think, it's obvious you're a threat! And just because Lewis has finally gone off the deep end and can't freaking tell anymore doesn't change the fact that I won't let you—"

Anderson found himself quickly knocked flat for the second time that day, the window ledge he'd been thrust against digging painfully into the gap in his shoulder blades. Oz, fist outstretched, stood above him, head lowered and bangs hiding his eyes from view. He seemed to pause briefly above Anderson on the ground, before taking off past Gilbert and down the hallway, almost running into his mother and knocking an armful of sheets from her arms as he went.

"Oz?" She called after him, "_Oz?"_ She faced forward again, turned the corner where he'd come from, and found Anderson on the ground, Gil standing over him.

It was amazing how fast the woman could change from exuding compassion to icy, unrelenting fury.

"What. _Happened."_

Anderson, left hand pressed against his bleeding lip, looked up at her helplessly from below.

* * *

Richard found Anderson the next morning, hiding amongst beds of furze, harebells, and myrtles.

"I wasn't _hiding_," Anderson hotly denied.

Richard shrugged, sitting down next to him on the red brick wall that divided the beds in the West annex of the conservatory. "Sure looked like it to me, bud."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine. Sure looked like it to me, Potato."

Anderson sputtered, his face turning puce. "Don't call me _that_, either!"

Richard didn't answer him, instead favoring to inspect his insulated coffee cup (Dodgson brand—he had to support his boys' school, after all). Anderson turned away in frustration, angrily glaring down at the cobbled path.

"Why aren't you manning the register or helping the customers?" Richard finally said, still glancing faux-casually at his thermos cup. "Hedia's alone up there, and you know she's not good with strangers."

"Why doesn't _Oz_ help then?" Anderson spit back. "Or make _Gilbert_ do it." His voice dropped as he muttered something along the lines of "serve the creep right" before weaving off into alarmingly violent and creative death threats.

Richard seemed to pretend not to hear, although he looked like he was considering the initial thought. "You know, you have a point," he pondered aloud. "Oz would probably be the best for this shift right now; he _is_ quite popular with the customers that come in at this time of day, and he certainly works better with Hedia." Well, he winced at the thought, "Lewis" did, anyways. "But him and you sharing a shift, of course," he turned, nudging his eldest son's knee with the base of his cup, "would involve you actually having to _talk_ with him. Unlike at breakfast."

At the nudge, Anderson just turned further away. If he'd crossed his arms, he'd have looked no different than he did when he was five and Oz had accidentally popped the head off his favorite G.I. Jacques.

"You know, it's not that bad. He's happy. And it's kind of cool to think that he's partially this major historical figure—"

"DAD!" Anderson jerked around, furious.

A long pause followed his scandalized yelp, after which several of the shop's patrons began to stare. Anderson again turned around to look at his hands.

Richard sighed. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, as others around them began to go back to their browsing. "I shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't be listening to me right now."

Anderson snorted a little pathetically, still turned around, as if he knew what his father was going to say next—and he probably did.

"But you should be listening to Oz." Richard concluded—and as his son once again furiously turned to face him, fists balled, he powered through before Anderson could get the words out. "Oz isn't some delusion, Anderson. I know that now. We… your mother and I weren't too sure at first either, I'm ashamed to say."

Anderson's grip relaxed slightly, arms still raised in a belligerent stance.

"You weren't here, Anderson, but Oz had initially waited specifically for you. Last Friday, he brought home this… guy—" (Anderson snorted. "Another?") "—and said there was something he needed to tell us. The other boy's name was Vincent, and he told us that he had been looking for Oz."

Anderson was still glaring. "I'm not exactly sure how this is supposed to make any of Lewis' new friends sound less creepy."

Richard almost chuckled. "Vincent told us that he was doing a favor for his brother, Gilbert Nightray, who had been a dear friend of Oz's and had promised to find him when he reappeared in the world—" Anderson, incredulous, went to speak again but Richard cut over him "—and as you can imagine, we thought he was nuts. But your brother was in pieces, Anderson—and despite his acting, he has been for a very long time. And you know that. So we took a chance. We let him write this girl in Idvitz, see if she really knew him like he and Vincent said. And she did, so they went to meet her."

He swirled the remaining liquid in his coffee cup. "But I guess the point is, Anderson, you need to trust your brother to find his own answers sometimes, because we can't do it for him. And you need to talk with him, because we certainly can't explain his answers for you. But what I do know, Anderson—" He reached out and patted his son on the shoulder. "—is that you really scared Oz last night."

Anderson didn't even move this time. He was staring at his feet, seeming to count the bricks in the patio.

"I don't think you or he noticed, but he was shaking badly even before dinner. And it'd be nice if you could tell me a little more about that fight you and he had last night…"

Anderson suddenly picked a stone from the wall, stood, and tossed it violently down the path. "_Dammit!"_ He hefted a few labored breaths before kicking some more stones around his feet. "_Why_ are you so good at this?"

"That's my job, when what you've done is stupid."

Anderson hefted himself back onto the wall. "Gilbert's still a creep!" He insisted petulantly.

Richard laughed. "The jury's still out on that one—kidding, kidding." Richard reached over to ruffle his son's blonde hair, far more succinct and dim than his younger son's. "He seems harmless enough to me, Anderson. He's just missed your brother quite a lot. Just like you would if your brother disappeared on you."

* * *

When Oz returned to his room that afternoon, he found two things on his bed.

The first was a book—the signature favorite object of anyone in the Tale household. This one in particular was a tour book, _A Guide to Sable's Best: Tales of Breathtaking Mansions &amp; the Dukian Elite. _

The second, laid gently on top of the book, was a single stalk of purple hyacinth.

Oz smiled, pressed the flower with the book, and went to thank his extremely dorky brother.

* * *

**AN:** Gdi Anderson, a reaction like that was why Oz was afraid of talking to his parents. Why did you have to pull that after everything started going so well?

Silly Anderson, you can't protect Oz from himself.

If last chapter was the chapter that wrote itself, this is the chapter that had to be dragged to the table kicking and screaming Anderson-style. Why, Anderson, why? And poor Gil, meeting all of these people for the first time in the middle of all this drama (that he may or may not have unintentionally caused) XD.

Also, next chapter we start breaking into another series of headcanons that Ryoura doesn't know I came up with. I am such a tumblr ghost.

Details:

*"The desk's center of gravity is pathetic" comes from me wondering how someone would make up an excuse for them just getting angry and flipping a table. (He's right up there with "It's not me, it's the chair." Honestly, with how much rage Anderson has towards inanimate objects, we're lucky Oz isn't still a stuffed animal—not that Anderson actually believes that just yet… Or that Oz actually remembers much of that himself…)

*I feel like Oz, of the two, actually has more memories of the past, simply because he cared more about remembering and was more exposed to things that would trigger them (growing up amongst the history, as opposed to Edith, who lived in a different country).

*I was going to make the scene with Richard and Anderson the start of Advance IX, but I wanted to make Oz getting the hyacinth the end of the chapter and it ended up being too short, so I tagged it on to Advance VIII.

*Hyacinths come in many colors and therefore have many meanings, but purple hyacinths are the flowers of apology and asking for forgiveness. Having grown up with a florist for a mother, Anderson's still a flower dork.


	10. Advance IX: Opera Teatrale

I think the best part about being a tumblr ghost is that Ryoura and their followers have no idea which headcanons are mine and what's going to show up in this fic until it's too late *cackles*

To answer my Guest reviewer: Nonsense, there are no stupid questions! But no, actually, Gil doesn't have both of his arms. I guess it's just more confusion born of omission? I'm always pretty vague about whose hand is doing what, except when specifying in relation to position. Gil's arm is rarely mentioned by Oz or Edith, really, because they remember vaguely _why_ he doesn't have it. I do admit in Advance VII, I did say that Anderson knocked Gil "on all fours," and also tells him to "keep [his] hands off" Oz, but those're more just figures of speech. Otherwise, his missing hand has gone mostly unmentioned. It _will_ get briefly mentioned next chapter, actually, but that's only to use and abuse the attention and sympathy someone missing an arm gets, because Oz is still a manipulative little brat. XD But thank you for bringing attention to this flaw of omission in my descriptions! I'll try to be more specific going forwards.

I also want to make note that in the previous chapter, I said that I see Oz as likely having more past memories than Edith because he cared more about remembering. This is not to say Edith doesn't care, but rather that Oz was in a stable position where he was able to devote more time and energy to focus on figuring them out, rather than constantly combating external forces like controlling grandparents or an unsupportive and/ore actively unfriendly community like Edith.

And because Oz focused more on his past memories, they affected him more, which caused him to focus more, which caused what was essentially a positive feedback chain. *sigh* Both Oz and Edith had pretty messy childhoods, in their own ways...

Anyways, THIS. CHAPTER. (and the next ones). This is actually a really short chapter, but holy heck was it hard to write! So, so much detail. So much research. So many things to drive my OCD crazy. *shudders* And it's not even that long! The next one is far longer.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance IX: ~Opera Teatrale~_

There is light.

It is inside his head, and inside his heart, and burned into the very corneas of his eyes—yet it doesn't hurt.

There is light.

Yet, despite it being everywhere, bright and whispering and shouting of joy and finality, he can easily locate the source. He does so.

In the very center of all this light—impossibly, as they are enveloped by light all around them, yet undoubtedly so—is a figure. The figure is a solid among the flow of liquid sun, and reaches out its hand.

Its pupils and irises are white orbs, glowing from within, its translucent green limbus all that remains of the former color.

His gaze, now so very red, meets its own, and he recalls with a feeling of lucidity that Vincent is gone, and Leo is gone, and this being is alone.

Its face is incredibly familiar, and perhaps it is because of this that the hand it reaches out is also incredibly so. And perhaps that is why taking it feels like taking in an impossibly old dream.

There is light.

* * *

Oz didn't find out why Anderson had given him the tour book until Sunday, as they were packing for school.

"Lamontre's only a five minute bus ride from Dodgson." He explained, slightly embarrassed. "Ten by bike. I figure I can leave uni and pick you up after school tomorrow, and we can head over. You know," Anderson looked up away from him, focusing on packing intensely, "If you want to, like, tell me about it and stuff."

Anderson peeked a glimpse and Oz's reaction through the corner of his eye, and whether he wanted to or not, he had to admit: that was one of the happiest expressions he'd seen his brother make in years.

He was slightly less pleased with Oz's next decision: to invite a few of his friends.

"I can't go," Edith scowled over her lunch of beef soup. "We've got to go file a request for temporary custody change."

"I can go," Gil answered, perfectly happy to leave after discovering the two cats that lived in Oz's bedroom. "I've got an apartment in Reveille."

"Are you _kidding _me?" Anderson exclaimed.

Oz laughed, swirling his spoon around his bowl absentmindedly. "From all the places we stayed at on the way back here, I think Gil's got an apartment in every city in the country."

"Great," muttered Anderson, but he tried to wipe the unhappy look off his face when Oz's smile dimmed. "Er, anyone else?"

"Hedia? She can probably go." Constance* Academy got out around the same time as Dodgson, after all, and the two shared campuses.

"_Yes."_ Anderson sighed in relief. Was it wrong for him to think of his brother's childhood friends as backup?

And so the next afternoon, Anderson met his brother, Hedia, and (to his near apoplectic annoyance) Gilbert in front of the entrance gate to the Dodgson-Constance campus. The two younger of his companions were both wearing their school's uniforms; Oz in a long-sleeved white polo, grey pullover and blue stripped tie, Hedia in a polo, gold tie, and red and gold tartan skirt.*

"Can't you guys change?" Anderson asked. He had—there was no way he was showing up in his uni's required suit to a place where people paid to gawk at everything. On the other hand, _Gilbert_was still wearing a suit everywhere (and he most definitely was _not_ being petty and looking for reasons to dislike the man, definitely not, thank you very much).

"Didn't have time," Hedia answered, sending a pointed gaze at Oz who was excitedly clenching and unclenching his folded hands behind his back.

"Well," Oz said, practically jumping up and down and attracting a lot of attention from others at the bus stop, "Think of it this way. It'll be harder for them to argue out of a student discount."

Anderson scoffed. "You just didn't want to wait."

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm right~!"

By the time the bus to Loupe had pulled up at five after two, Oz had gone from 'slightly bouncy' to 'nearly as unrelentingly, adorably cheerful as the sight of kittens and butterflies,' and this alone was already making Anderson exhausted.

"I wonder if they still call the All Hallows' Room the All Hallows' Room," Oz said excitedly, shuffling into one of the plastic bus seats as Hedia moved in next to them.

Anderson carefully took the last seat in the row, eyeing Gilbert challengingly the entire time as the man sat behind Oz instead. "What the hell is an 'All Hallows' Room?"

"It's the room we had All Hallows' Night parties in! We never really used it for anything else. I hope they don't think it was some sort of second ballroom, that's so much less interesting…"

Anderson blocked out the rest of what Oz was saying, commenting towards Hedia, "It's official: there is now an exact definition for what 'too much money' looks like.'" He turned to his brother again. "Please tell me they didn't have a room for every holiday?"

"Well, we technically had a Jours de Voix* hall, but why would you contain the biggest holiday of the year to one room? Decorations for the holiday season were always all over the house by then." Oz paused, bringing a hand to his chin, his eyes squinting and cheeks pouting slightly in confusion. "I think at one point Uncle Oscar had a sorcerer come in to make it snow for a week in the gallery, since Jours de Voix was only five days before my birthday. I can't… for some reason, I keep thinking it was interrupted."

Gil put his single hand on his head from behind. "Don't strain yourself."

Oz looked up at him, smiling again, and to Anderson it looked almost like he was nuzzling against it. "Right. I'm sure I'll remember more when I get there, anyways."

Anderson spent the rest of the five minute ride wondering whether to break that hand.

* * *

"The tour takes about two hours, guys, and it's leaving now. We don't have time for snacks." Hedia stood next to the open window of the vendor as Oz purchased sweetmeats* for all of them through it.

"We don't need the tour," Oz reminded her, and she saw Anderson bite back frustrated groans. "I can give you a better tour than anyone else has ever had!"

Hedia just shook her head, giving up and taking some petits fours as Oz offered the plate around, Anderson doing the same with a few Canelés. She watched as Oz's friend from his history club, Gilbert, took the bichon au citron he was given and shrugged at the taste.

"Have you kept up with cooking?" she heard Oz ask him. He sounded excited again. "We could make better ones for everyone at home! Edith could help, too; it'd be so much fun!"

His (apparently) old friend chuckled. "You two in the kitchen would be a disaster."

"That's _why _it'd be fun~"

"The tour's starting," Hedia reminded one more time, and this time all three of her companions shrugged, preferring to eat.

She sighed, focusing on the mansion's front steps as the bored-looking tour guide there began talking.

"Hello, everyone… can everyone hear me? Good, good." The guide backed up the stone steps a little. "Hello everyone! My name is Luca. On behalf of the Lamontre Historical Association I'd like to welcome you all to Lamontre Estate. The tour I'm about to take you on will take approximately 140 minutes, and during that time I will do my best to inform you of the grand story of this historic manor. However, before we do that I would like to remind you all that there is no flash photography to be used inside the house, so please turn all of your cameras to a no-flash setting. Second, please try to keep up with the group, as Lamontre is labyrinthine in construction and it's easy for someone who's never been here before to get lost."

He cleared his throat. "Now, to begin with, there have been other grand manors before this one, built by people of important standing and great wealth. The Lunettes' Verrefaire Hall has 63,500 square feet with 71 rooms, overlooking a six-mile view of the Ballot River. The Nightray mansions Soubois and Noirforet are each over 100,000 square feet, with about 160 rooms! But the Vessalius' Lamontre Manor is the largest non-monarchically-owned home ever built in Sable. It has 274 rooms, totaling over four acres of floor space and half a mile of passages.

"Lamontre itself was built in 1823, three decades after the Vessalius' house rise to prominence. Xavier Vessalius, Second Duke of Flambeau, began to believe that Orlueur was no longer of suitable impressions to represent the foremost of the Grand Dukedoms, and so commissioned from the famed Idvizen architect Wynne Howl* a building for his newly-purchased estate that would match his dreams of grandeur.

"Xavier's favorite part of the house was the ground floor, behind me and through these doors. He did his absolute best to perfect the impression it left in the eyes of guests." At this, the tour guide backed up fully into the gilded glass doors, swinging them open and allowing people through. "As we transition from the terrace into the Winter Garden, make sure to get a glimpse of the famous Finsort clock on the ceiling; the third Duke of Flambeau, Ambrose Vessalius, had a particular fascination with them. It's said this is the very last clock in the country run continuously by magic…"

"There they go," Anderson said, licking his fingers of excess caramel and custard.

"And I said, we don't need to go with them," Oz reminded. "He didn't even get the bit about the clock right. The Finsort clock* is in Orlueur; that's just a celestial clock my grandfather put in to track the planets with the days. You don't need magic for that."

Hedia was proud of the way Anderson was stuffing his face with a mille-feuille to keep from saying something stupid. She quietly followed his lead, hating the way "Oz" slipped in and out of himself but still being so painfully fond of his smile.

Calm down, Hedia, she told herself.

This was the world of Oz, a world Lewis was trying to open up for them. Whether it was real or not, what "Oz" wanted was what all of them here wanted—for them to understand. Understand what, Hedia couldn't fathom; she couldn't imagine the purpose of creating a personality that masqueraded as a boy already one hundred years gone.

But she stood up, brushed the powdered sugar of a beignet from her hands, and offered him her hand.

"Take us in?"

And he smiled.

* * *

AN: This is pretty much "Worldbuilding: the Chapter." *sudden headache* _Why_ are there so many notes?

The alternate title of this chapter is "Have I mentioned that I am French today?" (I'm not, but the characters pretty much are, and looking up all those French pastries was a pain).

Details:

*Constance is the middle name of Alice Liddell's little sister Violet, who is believed to have died at the age of two, around the same time as Alice's other little sister Rhoda. I felt this was less awful than giving the school the name of "Pleasance," which is Alice's middle name.

*Dodgson and Constance are both middle/high school hybrids that act more like one school with gender-separated school buildings and dorms than two different schools, and their students often interact for dances, rallies, awards and public events. They actually filter from a mutual co-ed private primary school, which then divides into two schools when the children reach the age of eleven. These two schools then run from the ages of eleven (middle school) to the age of 18 (beginning uni), after which their college-level division becomes co-ed again, though the dorms are obviously not. Anderson's in his first year of uni, Oz and Hedia are in the "high school" division.

The archaic single-gendered nature of the schools during pubescent years comes from their founding during the Dukian era (after all, Lutwidge was "_one of_ the most prestigious schools," but it fell during the revolution due to his heavy connection with the Dukedoms).

*The school uniforms are based off of Hill House School's uniforms, as well as what Oz was wearing in the epilogue (underneath his sweatshirt you can see a pullover and tie; yes I do think that was part of his school uniform). Hill House was the school the Prince of Wales attended. Their uniforms are, to be honest, pretty pretentious (yet fascinating).

With Oz's being blue and silver and Hedia's being red and gold, their uniforms are all the wrong color schemes! XD But since when are uniforms _not_ something to complain about?

*All Hallows Day is really the most obvious of several holidays similar to our own. It's also one of the only foreign-originating holidays still celebrated in Sable, especially since the heightened nationalism that filled the country after the Great Tousterre War. The major native holidays are Jour de Voix, Jour de Graines, Jour de Récolte, Jour de Clair (otherwise known simply as Bright Day), and Jour de Revenant. The last one is new, only showing up about a hundred years ago. Who knows? Maybe we'll talk about it later.

*I wanted to use the French word for sweetmeats, I really did. But google translate kept turning it into "Fresh Meat," which, while hilarious, was really disturbing.

*The architect Wynne Howl comes from the series _Howl's Moving Castle, _written by Diana Wynne Jones. The series is given a particular reference to here due to (what else?) architecture, particularly the fascinating design of the eponymous _House of Many Ways_ itself.

*Oz _would_ know what Finsort Clock looks like; after all, it screwed him over at his fifteenth birthday party. The name comes from the combined words for "end" and "fate." Why would you even buy a clock from a maker with that name?

*I really loved having fun with French names in this chapter, though it's been hard! While the desserts are all real French food, if someone were to run the fictional titles and places through a translator (adding or subtracting some spaces), they'd probably get interesting results. My favorite was being able to show the change in the Vessalius house through the change in their titles. Titles are traditionally named after the lands that come with the titles in European society. Though it was cut out of the chapter, the original version of the chapter made clear that the Vessalius used to be a family of impoverished Counts (a rank three tiers beneath a Duke), specifically headed by Jack's father, Mortemer Vessalius, the Count of Partir D'Ombre_. _"Partir D'Ombre" is a place in Sable (in fact, it's the village Orlueur, Jack's original estate, is nearest to), but it also literally means "From the shadows." But as the generations go by, the family gains new land and a new title (which, while keeping their old one, they prefer to use); "Flambeau," which translates roughly to "Guiding Light" ("torch" or "beacon" are other common translations).


	11. Advance X: L'Opera deî Pupi

Welcome to "Hedia does it better," the chapter, in which both Anderson and Hedia try to deal with the intrusion into their lives that is Gilbert, and Hedia, surprisingly enough, does it better.

In other words:

Step One: Hate Gilbert _quietly_.

Alert: Failed Step One.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance X: L'Opera deî Pupi*_

"What's this thing, anyways?" His brother asked, carelessly glancing over a strange violin-shaped instrument during their visit to the music room, hidden behind cases of Stradivarii and gilded rococo flutes.

Oz joined him, peaking over the boxes. "Huh. I wonder why they don't have that on display." He chanced a glance over at a guard at the room's entrance, but she was looking. "It's a Suka. It's kind of like a proto-violin, only it was played on your lap. I remember they always said Grandfather was very proud that he could buy it; Sukas went extinct as an instrument centuries ago and very few are left. Even the last-known schematics describing what they looked like were destroyed during a cultural exhibition in 1911."

An old woman next to him, whom he'd previously overlooked, tutted in disproval. "A Suka? Treated like this? I thought this was a museum."

"Maybe they honestly don't know, ma'am." Oz suggested, manners ingrained over years of working at Le Panier du Fleur.

"They're running a museum; they have no excuse. _You_ knew." Her companion, a mildly well-dressed man carrying what Oz assumed to be her carpet bag and umbrella, looked slightly bereaved.

Oz looked at Anderson, Hedia, and Gilbert, unable to say anything else. His brother was, predictably, of no help, while Hedia looked like she might have faintly agreed with the woman if not for her rudeness. Gilbert, meanwhile, had acquired an alarmed expression and stood a few feet away from them in a way that reminded Oz of Vincent's earlier impressions of an awkward piece of furniture.

The woman adjusted the wide brim of her hat. "I say, what are those old shoes doing there?"

Oz turned to see where she was looking and almost laughed aloud. Beneath the room's chinoseire commode was a pair of leather button tops.

"Unc—the last Duke, I hear," he told the woman, controlling his snickering, "had an extreme distaste for wearing shoes inside the house, no matter what anyone told him. Every place there was a door to the outside, he'd leave a pair of shoes so he'd never have to deal with them." Most of the time, they'd just been grateful that he complied with wearing socks.

'Prisons for the feet, prisons for the soul!' his uncle had proclaimed to them with a smile, swinging him or Ada around in the air whenever they'd tell him he was being ridiculous. Of all the things the people of this time got wrong or right about his family, they managed to remember Uncle Oscar's stupid shoe habit. There was a joke there, somewhere, but if he laughed too hard at it now he might end up crying later.

The woman looked at him curiously. "You know quite a lot about this kind of thing."

Oz sobered quickly, still smiling softly with his eyes. "I… I've done quite a bit of research. Ada Vessalius was our great-grandmother." He pointed between himself and Anderson.

To their surprise the old woman grinned, her cheering eyes crinkling pleasantly with wrinkles. "I'm Sherri Rainsworth, it's a pleasure to meet you." She gestured to the man next to her. "_This_ boy is accompanying me around the house to learn a little bit about Dukian standards. He's preparing for a role as one of the in-character tour guides, but he's hardly believable." She wagged her finger strictly at the man. "You take note from this young man here."

She began to move to his side and walk towards the door, but as she was still addressing him, Oz found himself walking in stride with her. Anderson, for once quiet, followed, with Hedia and Gil bringing up the rear. Gil seemed to want to keep a safe distance away, and Hedia seemed to prefer talking with him more than Anderson at the moment.

They moved into the Salon, and of all the rooms yet entered, this one was the one contained the most memories. The fine but comfortable silk-embroidered quilted sofas, the tall desk abattant, its back flat against the wall, and the thick folded curtains enclosing the doorways to the balcony to avoid a draft, concealing the view of fog rolling in off nearby Égaré Lake—all were familiar from long-gone, half-remembered days where he'd attended stuffed animal tea parties hosted by his little sister and demanded chess matches against an impossibly tiny Gilbert.

But what really mattered were the pictures.

Unlike the music room or entrance terrace, which had been stripped save for a few tasteful placements of majestic ancestors' tall regalities, the salon was crowded by hundreds of images. And names leaped into his mind the more he looked at them—an unusually large portrait of cousin Gwendoline bowed with a lace parasol for the painter, twins Léopold and Léontine faced each other on separate silhouettes, Grandfather Xavier stood in salute in his military regalia, and Great Aunt Joséphine stood clutching the bodice of her silk gown in one hand and the train of her velvet wedding cloak in the other, poised and ready to marry Prince Marc and take her place as future queen within the royal family.

But the biggest image of the collection by far was the Lamontre FilsPhotograph, blown up and redefined at ten times its original pocket-book size.

"It is _amazing _how much everyone in your family looks alike," Miz Rainsworth commented, gazing at the image of the historic tea party. She looked at Oz more thoroughly, and then scrutinized his brother (much to Anderson's immense discomfort). "You look like your grandmother, Viata," she finally decided, tapping Anderson's forehead with the tip of her umbrella. "Definitely more of a Peregrine than a Vessalius, or a van Wesel. Star of your grandfather's eye, she was. A little older than me, but our parents kept in touch." She looked over at Oz. "And you? Telling you who you look like has gotten to be a joke by now, I expect."

"I wish," muttered Anderson, rubbing his forehead from where he'd been (smacked) tapped with the umbrella tip.

Miz Rainsworth turned to Oz suddenly. "Now, what can you tell me about this room? Speak up now, Mr. Oz, you have people listening."

And indeed, likely because Miz Rainsworth was such an imperial presence, there now was a crowd gathering around them.

As his friends watched, Oz's face suddenly went from flabbergasted to unreadable. He and Miz Rainsworth shared a look, before he nodded strangely and smiled with his eyes. "The salon was a place of meeting," he began, "and also a place where the family showed off the pride they had in each other for all guests to see…"

* * *

"How do you know Lewis?" Hedia asked her companion in wallflowership as they both watched the person in question real off obscure historical facts and family anecdotes. Apparently the Salon they stood in had been used as the office of origin for the Bouchon Shipping Company when it was founded and funded by the Vessalius in 1834—not that she was paying much attention.

"Hmm?" the tall man sputtered, taking his eyes away from where he'd been obliviously staring for the past five minutes.

"How do you know Lewis?" she repeated, careful to keep urgency or anger out of her voice. This man wasn't intending to stir up trouble after all. He probably didn't even know about Lewis' history.

"Oh," he said in a small voice. "I had… known him quite a long time ago." He fiddled with the trim of his right pocket with the only hand he had, as if itching for a comfort no longer there. "I met him again a few days ago, when my… when my brother died."

"He was attending a funeral?" Hedia asked loudly, then quickly hushed herself as faces turn to look at them.

"Something like that."

"But his father said he was on a history tour in Orlueur!"

Gilbert shrugged uncomfortably. "I-I'm sure he was. But things happened. It's not like anyone planned most of this."

Hedia was beginning to feel uncomfortable with her previous frustration. Whatever had happened had obviously been an accident, and quite recent. She could almost forgive him for his constantly touching Lewis, if he wasn't calling her friend "Oz" and possibly undoing years of progress and mental healing.

"You know," she tried breaking to him gently, though not quite sure how, "Lewis has… had a difficult time with things like this." She looked over at the _Lamontre Fils _photograph, at the ghostly image of her friend's doppelgänger. "His name's not really Oz, you know… although, try telling him that now. We thought it had gone away, until recently." Hedia looked back to him. "Please be careful in how you act around him. As you might have guessed from the few days you've spent among us, you've come at a rather… difficult time."*

She stood by him, watching so many expressions flash across his face and not understanding nearly as many as she wished. After a few minutes of silence in which Lewis' voice was the only sound heard with any significance, explaining the importance the Vessalius family's last Duke placed in an old talbotype camera, Hedia was left to her own thoughts as Gilbert left the corner, going to stand by Lewis again (though he was still wincing every time Miz Rainsworth looked at him for some reason).

And she was almost okay with that. After a few minutes his hand had managed to find its way to Lewis' shoulder, and occasionally his head again, though only briefly to readjust his hair. And she was almost okay with that, too.

As Miz Rainsworth and Lewis went to move into the next room, the crowd following with them, she saw Anderson grab Gilbert's remaining arm and tug him back into the room, spiteful look again on his face. He'd likely, Hedia realized with slow dread, been watching Gilbert's public display of affection.

And she was certain—as she saw Lewis cast a searching glance over his shoulder—that nobody was going to end up okay with that.

Hedia left her corner, hurrying to the door and after Lewis.

* * *

"Why do you keep _doing_ that?" Anderson whispered angrily.

"Doing what?"

"The creepy thing! The—touching thing!"

"I—" Gilbert seemed actually stunned at his anger. "Sorry, I…didn't realize I was doing anything. Force of habit."

Force of habit. _Force of habit._ He didn't need a reminder of the few sparse details his parents had managed to coherently explain to him over the weekend, or that apparently Lewis now thought the creepy guy obsessed with _petting_ him had known him longer than Anderson himself had!

"What is WRONG with you?" Anderson finally burst, now that the salon was nearly empty. Most of the people had followed Miz Rainsworth and his brother out (though, not _all_ of them, leading to quite a few shocked faces he didn't actually give a damn about). But his brother's magnetic personality worked to his detriment with creeps like this. "What grown man lives for stalking a fifteen year old boy for the rest of his life? Leave my brother alone!"

"Oz doesn't have a problem with it," Gilbert objected quietly.

"Oz. Isn't. REAL!" He'd finally blown his top. "You want to know what _Oz_ is!? OZ is this _messed up_ _THING_ that people like YOU did you MY BROTHER!" He took an aggressive step closer, getting right up in the man's face. "You come here, from your stupid history tour, and keep _calling_ him that! Do you know _how much _TROUBLE he's gotten from that_ stupid fucking _NAME and that stupid fucking PHOTO_?_ _You're not exactly the first stalker I've chased off!"_

Anderson paused, face contorted in anger, before he huffed with anger, taking a step back and clenching his fists at his side, turning slightly away from the man he'd dressed up as his adversary.

It took another few unusually quiet seconds. "But you _don't._ You could _never _know. And now Mom and Dad want us all to play nice with my brother's delusions because it makes him _happy, _and he's not acting _scared_ anymore_._ And you know what!" His voice actually was starting to sound strangely choked. "I'm _okay_ with that. I'm _trying. _But you just _come in here, _and take _advantage of that,_ and put your _freaking _HANDS ALL OVER MY LITTLE BROTHER_—"_

"_Hey_ everybody~!"

Anderson and Gilbert jerked around to face the door so fast Gilbert winced from mild whiplash.

Oz, standing in the doorway with his bangs hanging low over his eyes and Hedia behind him, called cheerfully out to everyone in the room. He strode over to his brother, and standing on his tiptoes, managed to put an arm around Anderson's shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. "Don't mind Andy here~! His favorite hobby is bullying disabled people!"

The few bystanders remaining in the room, many of whom had looked scandalized enough to call the police, suddenly went from expressions of fear and concern to annoyance. The crowd began to disperse, sending dark looks to all of them as they left.

Anderson was left stunned for a few quiet minutes as everyone else shuffled off, until he noticed near-invisible traces of liquid running down the younger blonde's cheeks.

Anderson groaned under his breath. "Shit. Lew… Oz, I'm—"

"_Shh,"_ his brother hushed, guiding Anderson out onto the empty balcony and away from people. "Gil's left, Andy*. I think it's time we have a talk after all, don't you think?"

* * *

AN: I really hope this chapter was paced right. In some ways I wanted Anderson to kind of just trash the good mood all at once, but in others I kind of wanted to prepare you for it? Kind of fought myself on it really. Writing this chapter was... eugh. At least we'll soon be off the Anderson-centric mini-arc, moving on to better things.

Also, Andy does not understand time nor place. He feels the anger coming on, and it burns. It's kind of justified, though, since he has every right to think of Gil as this opportunistic stalker, and he's had plenty of experience in chasing stalkers off. Tip one: make a scene.

Thankfully, this should really be the last Andy tantrum we have to put up with. Writing his anger's kind of hard, because I'm a pretty passive person!

When I set out to write this chapter, I didn't even plan to put any Rainsworth women in this story! But their pull is too strong. Sherri Rainsworth, everybody—Sharon's own dear granddaughter. The fall of the Dukedoms hasn't changed their queenly demeanor in the slightest. But then, Sherri Rainsworth is a woman who's worked hard to deserve it.

Details:

* L'Opera deî Pupi means "Opera of the Marionettes," title following Hedia's puppet title theme and Anderson's musical title theme. Lewis Carroll was said to compose and perform Marionette Operas for his friends and family.

*Ada's married name, van Wesel, comes from the origins of the name "Vessalius," Andreas van Wesel, a founding anatomist who Latinized his name to Vesalius later in life. Peregrine, on the other hand, means 'wanderer' or 'pilgrim.' Considering the woman their grandfather married had the first name of Viata, Latin for 'traveler' and Romanian for 'life,' it's pretty fitting.

*The ironic thing is that Hedia doesn't know Gil's the _cause_ of what she sees as "a difficult time." Kind of, anyways. She doesn't know that this whole thing started up because his brother, Vincent, came to get Oz to make sure Gil wasn't alone after he died. Or that Vincent was that guy she told off for loitering after-hours at the flower shop.

*A calotype camera is one of the earliest forms of modern photography popular in the latter half of the 19th century. Lewis Carrol was highly talented in using one, but the name he used for it was the Talbotype! (After William Talbot, its creator).

*Gil isn't _gone_ gone. He just ran off somewhere. Poor guy's really upset, and finally acknowledging a few things he's tried not to.


	12. Advance XI: Cantastorî

Oz reminds everyone that real reason we're all here is for him, and somehow does that without sounding vain. Also, he finally remembers/understands that he spent a good portion of his life being the power equivalent of a billion atomic bombs. Somehow, this concerns him less than Anderson's temper tantrum.

Also, there comes a time in life when you just have to admit that the manipulative mastermind you've built up in your head is really less evil and more pathetic. And honestly, it's really always been your brother that's the mastermind.

To Mouse: I'm glad you're enjoying the fic! Anderson's going to have to swallow that pride of his sometime. And to respond to your question, I'm going to answer that at the end if I don't answer that in-story.

Finally, on to something completely different: We're almost done Anderson's little arc! After next chapter, we'll be returning to some characters we haven't seen for the last few chapters! (Thank god. Andy, you're just too fiery for me).

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XI: __Cantastorî_

"I guess we need to start at the source," Oz said, easing Anderson and himself onto one of the public benches lining the perimeter of the balcony. He fiddled with the hem of his pullover until Hedia sat on his right side and gently removed his hand.

"We do," she agreed, "But not with you pulling seams out of your clothing again."

Anderson grumbled reluctantly from his left, "Mom hasn't had to buy you a new undershirt this semester, let's keep it that way."

Oz smiled softly at the both of them. Even after all this, they were still there.

"I know you both are upset," Oz finally spoke, and Hedia sighed, leaning her head on one of her hands. Anderson was obvious, but she should have guessed he could tell with her.

"And I know… that this is probably really hard to understand. Impossible, almost. And, it's probably scary, because…" Oz searched for the words, for a similar situation he could source his emotions from. His mind landed on his half-remembered ten year jump, on Gilbert going from small and timid to tall and slightly gruff. "…Because people change." He said finally. "They change, sometimes imperceptibly and sometimes really fast, and suddenly you don't know where you stand even among the people you love most." He almost snorted. "And I know I've always been someone who's a bit of both those situations, in the most extreme ways."

He grabbed his brother's hand, though Anderson didn't show any sign of acknowledging this besides glancing away from all of them, and looped an arm through Hedia's own, to which she blushed slightly. "I know it can be scary, and it's scarier trying to find where you are to me, now that everything's changed. It takes a lot of courage to try to find it." He tried to meet both of them in the eye, but Anderson still wouldn't look at him. "But that's what this was for, right? That's why you wanted to come here, right?" Oz released Hedia's arm and poked his brother's forearm with his freed right hand.

Anderson finally looked down from his aloft gaze and met Oz's, arms still crossed and clearly still upset. He then returned to avoiding his eyes.

Oz's brow furrowed in confusion, but turned back to Hedia as she spoke.

"So…" she said gently, taking his hand again. "If you really are 'Oz,' what happened?"

He looked down at his knees a few times, lost in thought, blinking. "I think…" he decided finally, "I think there was something wrong. The Dukedoms, and the Baskervilles… there had been something wrong, and they'd somehow managed to upset… Ugh, Gil said he had this book to explain it, but I haven't seen it yet." He bit his lip, looking up at her again. "There's this person, called the Core of the Abyss. Kind of."

She nodded, understanding that his pause was her cue to assure him she was listening and trying to understand. Through his arm Oz felt Anderson tense—though his brother would never admit it, he was listening.

"And the Dukedoms, and the Baskervilles, they had had contact with hir. But something went wrong, and xe became really, really upset. And the conflict ended up destroying things, everywhere. And so Edith and I—her name was Alice, back then—we and Gil had figured out a way to fix hir, but while Gil lived, it ended up killing the two of us."*

Hedia blinked at him. "So there _was _a superweapon?"*

"What?" Oz asked in confusion. "Oh, no. Well—kind of?" He rethought his words. "It was kind of… me, actually. In a way."

"_What?"_

"Er…" Oz suddenly looked very confused as to how to proceed. "Yeah, maybe we just should wait for Gil to come out from wherever he's hiding, this is actually really hard without help…"

"I-if you want to." Hedia glanced at her wrist. "The museum closes in an hour and a half; we've still got time." She stood up. "Eh-I-I'll… go get some refreshments." She hurried off the balcony and back indoors, Oz watching her depart. He privately suspected she was really just loitering around the doors to give the brothers a chance to talk, but he wasn't going to call her out for her kind discretion.

"So," Anderson finally spoke, though he kept his face away from Oz, "if you really are Oz, what happened to Lewis?" His shoulders tensed. "Is he _gone_, now that you're going back to some—some world-wrecking, midget, prissy _noble_—god, it even sounds stupid outloud!" He wrung his fists in front of him. "If—if 'Oz' is back, then does my brother even _exist_? Are you just another new stranger I have to live with in the same freaking house while you and your friends take over my brother's _life_? Why are you—"

Oz stood up, cutting off Anderson's attempt at anger, and walked around to see Anderson's face since Anderson was so determined on not looking at him.

Anderson had tears in his eyes, though he was scowling angrily at Oz for actually seeing this.

Instead of getting upset, Oz gave him a lopsided smile. "Honestly, Andy, that pride is going to crush you under one day."

"Shut up, Shorty," he snapped. "Maybe you aren't even really freaking short!"

The smile dropped into his own deadpanning frown. "And now you're just getting ridiculous."

"Just go hang out with creepy Gilbert!" Anderson was still entirely capable and willing to fight this even if his brother was trying to lighten the mood, it seemed. "He's apparently always been more of a brother than me anyways!"

"Anderson, considering you _are_ my brother and you now sound like you ripped half your lines off the desperate girlfriend in a chick flick, _you're_ the one now coming off creepy here." Oz tried to poke his brother some more, trying to make him look at him. Anderson responded by swatting him away, sadness molting into a more familiar brotherly annoyance.

"_Stop that!" _Swat.

"Why?" Poke.

"_Because we were having a serious conversation and you __**always**__ do this!"_ More swatting.

"Guess I'll never change then, will I~?" Poke, landing dead center on Anderson's forehead. His older gave a screech of rage, and Oz giggled, dodging his brother's flailing arms. "Maybe you should learn not to be so easy!"

At this point he was pretty sure Anderson was at a level of frustration beyond coherent speech, which was exactly where Oz could laugh the most. But now that his brother was feeling better (and by 'better' he meant 'returning to his default setting of grouchy scowling'), Oz actually _did_ have something important to say.

"Andy," Oz said with a smile, stopping his poke fight and getting his brother's anger to cool all at once. "You know that Gil is the same way, right?"

Anderson raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "_Huh._"

"No, really," Oz smiled down at his hands. "You don't know who 'Oz Vessalius' is, not really. And Gil doesn't know who 'Lewis' is. So you're both going to have to re-learn that, if things are going to get better."

He sat back down next to his brother, sliding up so close next to him that, to Anderson's great aggravation, there was no personal space. "You both can do it, though," he said definitively, clinging to his brother's arm in a cutesy way that always got on his nerves. "Because you're both my family!"

His only response was flat. "Seriously. Stop it." Anderson yanked his arm out of Oz's grasp.

"_Aww~"_

"You were doing it on purpose, and you know it!"

"So?"

And that was how Hedia found them again, bickering incessantly to each other's mutually alternating aggravation and amusement.

* * *

The Oz Vessalius room was a sad thing to gaze upon.

Don't make a mistake—it wasn't sad because of a lack of luxury, or interesting items on display, or comfort. It had all of those things, and in great quantities. Gilded clocks, daybeds, sofas, canapés, and fine art bejeweled the room at every glance.

But the chamber was very empty of person, even for a room in which the owner was long deceased. Despite the fame and legends that had come with the years, very little was truly known about the vanished heir who had once inhabited that very room.

Despite this, the museum had done its best. Though many of the original bookshelves and galleries had been ravaged by invaders during the Great War, an attempt had been made to bring back the originals or similar. Books suited for a young Duke's education filled the heir's private bookshelves; a round, c-shaped writing desk was brought in, curved to precisely fit the angle of the tower windows it was pressed against; and a few precious family belongings donated by the van Wesels were placed in glass cases and displayed around the room. Among them was the original Lamontre Fils photograph, but there were also books, paintings, original childhood toys, and mannequins displaying the young noble's clothing. Plaques donned the walls for lack of original decoration, explaining the importance of this tragic figure, his impact on the revolution, and the ongoing archaeological search for his remains at Orlueur.

It was, in short, the room in the museum that felt the most like a genuine museum, and the least like someone's actual home.

In Gilbert's opinion, it was hardly a better representation of all that Oz Vessalius was than the single gold obelisk in the Vessalius' private cemetery that bore his name.*

And this was the room in which Anderson finally found the man.

"Jeeze," he groused, attempting his brother's light and non-confrontational tone with unpracticed airs, "He was right when he said you liked to hide. I guess I should be grateful you didn't go hide in the gardens or something."

The tall man, in return, said nothing.

Anderson pretended to shrug nonchalantly, hiding aggravation poorly and attempting to distract himself by looking over the exhibits. It was actually pretty funny to imagine his brother—or someone who very much looked like his brother—wearing all the effeminate dress-like long coats kept in the glass cases. Then again, it wasn't unimaginable either; his brother was always a bit of a fashionista and had never had any problem jaywalking right over supposed gender barriers when it suited him*.

"Ada used to bring her dolls in here," said the man quietly, from all the way on the other side of the room. He seemed to be inspecting an old train set belonging to the last heir. "She had one very special one she named Onza, with golden hair and little emerald inlays for eyes. Lady Émilienne Lemaire, their Aunt, had it made special to look just like Ada, but Ada insisted it looked more like her brother, so she cut its hair and initially tried naming it Oz." There were no dolls in any of the glass cases, but Anderson had a feeling he'd seen the doll Gilbert was talking about before. "Oz didn't like it, and managed to convince her that the dolls liked having their own names. So she named it Onza instead. I had thought at the time that Oz just found dolls creepy…"

Anderson had literally no idea where he was going with this. The man didn't seem to either; his voice dwindled to a quiet nothing as they both looked at different exhibits about the same person on different sides of the room.

Anderson was going to attempt conversation again—if only so that he could say he tried—but he was interrupted before he could let out a syllable.

"You're not wrong, you know," the man said finally. "Not entirely."

Anderson jerked his head around. _What? _

"I really—" the man paused to breathe. "I don't think I thought this through, really." He chuckled bitterly. He was now sitting on the silk and chiffon comforter of the canopy bed, which Anderson was fairly sure wasn't allowed, looking down at his one remaining hand and examining the glove he wore on it.

"I tried to get over losing them," he continued finally, inspecting a loose stitch in a seam that appeared to have been repaired many times before. "I was going to have to survive a hundred years, but Oz would probably have sicced a cat on me if I didn't actually have a life during it. But every time another person—" His voice cut off. He restarted. "It became harder."

Time washed away the decades, reducing what had been flesh and blood people into mere ink droplets on his pen, until all that was left was the grand ruins and shells of what had been their lives and their stories. Until his most precious… everything was, too, just another story. The remnants of which were all around him.

"I really didn't think this through," he said again. "I knew, but I don't think I realized. This has… for them too…"

Because of course it had. Death hadn't stopped the wheels from turning. Rebirth hadn't stopped life. He certainly hadn't expected Oz to return to him with his hair in ribbons and wearing his old leather highheels and petti overcoats and ready for tea parties with Alice and Sharon and Break and Reim and Uncle Oscar in the garden. At least, that was what he'd told himself. But he still hadn't been expecting any of this, either.

"I'm strangely glad it's you and not Oz here to see this," he told Anderson, his hands shaking and his head bowed slightly. "Because actually, Oz probably _would_ sic a cat on me. A hundred years, and I haven't gotten over him."

And if any other reaction had been likely, it went right out the window with that last sentence.

"_Holy shit,"_ Anderson mouthed to himself. Seriously, how was he supposed to deal with this _now_? He didn't do delicate situations. That was his brother. _"Holy shit,"_ he muttered again, this time louder. "I thought you were just some over-attached best friend, but you really are his stalker. You're his best friend _and_ you're his stalker. _Holy shit._"

Gilbert just sat there, flinching at seemingly every syllable as he spoke. It was amazing that a grown man could look so much like a lost child.

And Anderson found, much to his great surprise, that he couldn't work up any anger or hatred towards this man. Truth be told, while he was creepy—very, very creepy, with an unhealthy dependency on his brother that, if he continued to spend time around them, Anderson would _demand_ he see a therapist for—he was honestly just too _pathetic_ to hate. This man, Gilbert, couldn't see his brother for the half-truth of a superimposed image he had painted over him in his stead.

Which made him, Anderson, also feel like a huge dunce—because, as always (with _teeth-grinding _consistency), his shorty little brother was right. Anderson had done the same thing.

Dammit. Dammit. _Dammit._

"'m sorry."

Gilbert looked up from his inspection of his gloved hand. "What?"

Anderson kicked a bed post. "I _said_ I'm _sorry."_ He huffed out. Begrudgingly, he added, "I guess… if you deal with whatever the hell your complex is with my brother, I can't stop you from hanging around. It's not like I control who my parents choose to let into our house." He turned around, fixing his glare (a far more comfortable expression for him) back on Gilbert. "But mind his personal space, you creep. I _will_ break that hand."

Gilbert only gave a watery, pitiable chuckled, as if he was familiar with Anderson's reactions. Great, now even _non-_shorty people were reading him like an open book.

Dammit. Dammit. _Dammit._

* * *

AN: After the first scene in this chapter, Oz suspects forevermore that Anderson watches soap operas while at uni. Also, Anderson defines the ever-melodramatic "MY LIFE IS A LIE" saying to now refer to any time "when I'm no longer sure if my brother is short." Well Anderson, Oz is fifteen and still looks like the unholy offspring of Cinderella and Polly Pocket, so I suggest praying that he magically skips puberty again.

(And who knows, maybe it'll happen. Oz is a CoM, after all—they have a strong potential to be reality warpers, what with their jobs as official besties of the Core).

Also, Oz is pretty much literally the human embodiment of bunnies and sunshine. And Anderson is the Grinch. They're just the best comedy duo ever on holidays.

*sigh* And now on to the drama. Alright everyone, I feel like the fandom needs to sit down and have a talk about Gilbert.

Despite the theme of doing things for yourself, the story doesn't touch on Gil's extreme devotion to Oz (besides the whole 'it's not mind control I'm devoted to him of my own free will' plot point). I mean, he was able to finally see him as an equal by the end, but he waited _one hundred and fifteen years for him._ To the point where it's implied his dialogue with Vincent that Oz and Alice's possible return was all Gil was living for by the end. He literally cares so little for what happened during the century without them that he mentions _nothing about it _(besides what happened just after they died with the people they knew)_. _Can you _imagine_ his state of mind by the end of that century? That implies that he does not find anything after they left meaningful enough to tell them. Gil, I find your love for Oz pure and adorable, but seriously man. That. That needs therapy.

On a certain level, Anderson has a point. He really sucks at making that point without sounding like an asshole, but he has a point.

(Gil will get better, though, as he reintegrates into Oz and Edith's new lives).

Details:

*While people sometimes refer to the Core as a girl, I think personal think the Core is genderless. Originally I had Oz referring to the Core as an "it," but while in nonpartial description the Core _is _an "it" (given that it is physically a being without gender), Oz is well aware that xe is a conscious being. So I kept the language used to describe the Core's physical description as "it," but changed the language used for discussing hir as a person to gender-neutral pronouns.

*You may remember the "superweapon" from the bonus podcast special _Things You Overlooked in History Class. _Yes, most people really do think that there was some secret, world-wrecking weapon that someone was abusing to cause the Tragedies. And they're technically right. If you think about it technically, that superweapon is Oz.

*You can't tell me that Anderson's way of making up isn't by just returning to a normal level of bickering. That's how he gets over most of his conflicts with people! And Oz would probably be twice as annoying back to him in these situations from having to deal with Anderson all his life.

*Obelisks became popular burial markers of the rich and powerful starting around 1700 until grandiose marble tombstones fell out of fashion in the mid-20th century. But in traditional Egyptian lore, obelisks were believed to be the solidified embodiment of sunbeams, and were often placed as markers for entrances to the world of the gods (embodied by temples). Gold was also representative of sunlight and of divine blessing, touch, or interference. It isn't a far stretch to say that Ada might even have known all this, because much of Victorian occult knowledge was based off of classical sources like Celtic, Greek and Egyptian rituals (well, the parts that weren't totally made up, at least).

*I can't actually find anything similar to Oz's clothing in men's fashion. And that's weird, because Mochizuki Jun did her research on men's fashion—Jack and Oswald's clothing are clearly from the 1700s, and Oscar, Zai, Gilbert, Vincent and all the rest are clearly a mix of Second French Empire/Victorian. Yet Oz's clothes are the outliers. Sure, there are some similarities, but it's fairly amusing that Oz's clothes match women's styles far more than men's in shape, cut, and design.

*Onza is the Italian word for ounce, which is often shortened in measurements to oz. I almost named the doll Ozma, after the golden haired Princess of questionable gender from the Land of Oz, ruling after the Wizard was removed, but… eh… I might use that name later.


	13. Advance XII: Lufsig

To Stephanie Wang - You're right! Oz was initially planned to be female. Maybe she just didn't feel like changing the wardrobe XD

This time, Oz is a history nerd. Also, a mastermind. A cute mastermind. How dare he. Also, another edition of Worldbuilding! The chapter.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XII: ~_ _Lufsig~_

The returning walk down from the Oz Vessalius room was possibly one of the most awkward moments in Anderson's life, what with Gilbert randomly switching from sharing life stories supposedly of his brother to apologizing quietly but repeatedly from behind him. He snapped at the man twice and immediately regretted it, since Gilbert always reacted by making faces closely resembling a puppy being shooed out the door by its owner.

Damn, how did Lewis and Hedia _deal_ with this guy? Gilbert was more of a nutcase than his brother.

Worse still, they ended up getting lost together.

"_We're_ not lost," Anderson insisted. "Shorty just can't stay put." He stared down the three split directions of the strangely-constructed hallway and missed Gilbert's double-take at his words.

"…this part of the house underwent severe renovations during the Idvitzen occupation." Gilbert finally told him. "There was talk that Morton XI planned on turning it into his palace after we captured Ostene.* So I'm afraid I can't help you on where we are right now."

Anderson groaned, shifting to the side as another tour group came through.

"Now this floor of Lamontre is particularly exceptional for its time period because this entire floor, with the exception of the servants' passage running behind this wall here, was dedicated to guest bedrooms. The Vessalius, for the most part, prided themselves on their accommodations and hospitality, and it was said the mansion could house over a hundred night guests on this floor alone. Our first room of note here, just off the Living Hall, is the Folchart Room, where celebrated author Fenoglio Folchart stayed during his visit in the summer of 1847 while doing research for his famed classic _The Demesne of Cynosure._* Its dimensions have been changed slightly since the Idvitzen Occupation of 1948, but the original Carte Desk on which the book was written—"

"Let's just join the group," Anderson suggested. "We'll find them on the way out."

Neither Gilbert nor Anderson were particularly excited about joining the history tour (history was for nerds like his brother and dad), but both knew it would probably be easier to run into Oz and Hedia that way.

The tour guide (an uber-composed snowy-haired college student in a vintage walking suit and square glasses) took them through the North and South tower passages, stopping every few feet to explain some important guest that stayed in the nearest room, until they entered the hall with another staircase and found a congested amount of people on the corner counter-cross.

"One minute, please, everyone," she said calmingly, and she turned away to push herself through the crowd to the front. The rest of the tour group milled around confusingly, wondering why everyone was so eager to get a look into the Marc IV room.

Until, as people quieted down again, Anderson and Gil recognized the voice in the center of the crowd.

"…Marc's proposal to Lady Joséphine was an especially smart political move, as the Vessalius family had been gaining wealth and power at an extraordinary rate for a Dukedom only four decades old, and more often than not they were rivaling the royal family for political influence. With the Duke's sister safely wedded to the future King, the interests of the royal family and the Grand Dukedom were now realigned in cooperation. According to rumor, Prince Marc actually proposed to Lady Joséphine while staying in this room for an extended use of hospitality over the spring of 1829 while viewing the newly completed mansion. To be honest, though, many of the family did not like Lady Joséphine's choice in suitors."

Of _course_ it was Oz, standing next to a speechless Hedia and an amused Miz Rainsworth (and her stunned-stupid companion), happily talking their ears off and seemingly supremely unconcerned with the massive crowd gathering around him. (Most of whom, Anderson noticed to his sudden annoyance, were wearing pins depicting two intersecting golden wings and labeled "The Vanished Vessalius Mystery Club."*)

"Prince Marc was, at the time, the youngest of Queen Pétronille's children, unlikely to gain the throne with his two older brothers in the way," Oz explained to Miz Rainsworth, who was looking at him with a strange sort of pride, "Duke Xavier also believed him to be of terrible disposition and foolhardy egotism, and though it was these traits that made him easy to manipulate later in life, they did not endear him to his in-laws. However, after the suspicious assassination of his oldest brother Pharamond and his brother's Nightray bride, Princess Magalie, and his second brother Prince Ermenegilde's abdication of the throne, Lady Joséphine's fiancé was suddenly the sole heir. By the time the Great Dukedoms met their downfall in the revolution seventy years later, six different royal families from nine different countries and city-states were closely related to the head of the Vessalius family. After the death of King Marc IV in 1852, this room was remodeled to be used as the royal guest suite for King Achille—who died before he even made his first visit."

Looking over the crowd, it became obvious that several people had their hands raised. "Yes?" Oz asked, nodding over to a girl on her tiptoes standing behind a very tall bodybuilder of a man.

"Does this mean you're related to royalty?"

Oz laughed breathily. "In a way? We're a good century removed from all of this, really. And truth be told, every person in the world is probably related to a member of some royal family." He glanced over at the newer guided group that had converged on their own quasi-tour cluster, all of whom had raised their hands at once when he answered the first question.

"Oh, um." He sighed, and next to him Miz Rainsworth chuckled. "Okay, for all the people just showing up, first things first—my name is Lewis Tale, nicknamed Oz for… obvious reasons, and I'm the great-grandson of the last Duchess of Flambeau, Ada Vessalius." He saw some of them begin to put their hands down. "Yes, I am well aware there is a strong family resemblance." The rest of the hands went down.

Anderson and Gilbert's tour guide pushed herself into the front, and Anderson used the gap left in the crowd to do the same. "Miz Rainsworth, what's going on?"

As Anderson and Gil joined the group, the older woman looked between the tour guide and Oz fondly. "Ah, Vilhelmina, perfect. I'm considering giving this young man a job, actually."

"_What?"_ cried Anderson quietly in surprise, until Hedia slammed down on his foot with her heavy soled boots.

Thankfully, his voice was covered up by both the sound of the slowly departing crowd and by another cry of 'what,' this one by the young man that had been accompanying Miz Rainsworth.

"What indeed?" she replied, amused. "The boy clearly knows his stuff, and certainly has the patience and charm for the job. With all the times people have asked him about Oz Vessalius in the last ten minutes, I'd have been tempted to box some ears." She turned to Oz. "As the major financial backer of the Lamontre Historical Association, I'm putting my support behind selecting Mr. Oz here to fill the vacant position."

The tour guide looked the two of them over, then shrugged. "All right then," she said, extending a hand for Oz to shake. "H'llo there, Oz." She giggled when saying his name. "My name's Vilhelmina Daniels, I'm junior manager of staff. I help out all our minors on the pay roll—"

"_Hey," _Anderson whispered urgently to Hedia. "_What's going on?"_

"A bunch of people started following us, thinking O-Lewis was some sort of tour guide." She huffed. "I'm pretty sure Miz Rainsworth set this up from the moment she met Lewis, if she was really looking for a new tour guide from the beginning. And I'm pretty sure Lewis knew it." She huffed, annoyed. "The pains of having a cute mastermind for a best friend."

Anderson sent her an unimpressed look. "Cute?"

"Shut up, Potato."

Anderson sputtered, but then came back to focus. "Shouldn't we be stopping this? There's no way he can explain knowing all this without people thinking he's crazy—"

He was silenced in surprise by the nasty glare and yank on his arm pulling him down eye to eye with his brother's childhood friend.

"Anderson, I _swear to god,"_ Hedia whispered back to him, always quiet at her most furious, _"Do not mess this up for him._"

Anderson swallowed, eyes wide. He nodded.

Back in the front of the group, tourists were thanking Oz for the wonderful addition he made to their tour and congratulating him on his unusual method to getting a job. Many also paid their respects to Miz Rainsworth as they left, nodding or thanking her for her many charities.

"So," Oz said conversationally, waving goodbye to the final guests in their faux tour group, "How much did your grandmother tell you about us?"

Miz Rainsworth smiled the same distant, knowing smile as her grandmother Sharon. "Only that I had a better chance of seeing you again than she did. Oh, and to bring Chocolat Oolong to your next tea party; she didn't much enjoy the Earl Grey your uncle served."

And that evening, Oz left with a new job, a number, an address, and an open invitation to visit. Old ladies getting on in their years liked to hear fairy tales too.

* * *

Night had fallen, and as they waited for the final bus back to Reveille, Oz was having trouble finding Gilbert.

"Maybe he's just staying in Loupe for the night," Anderson suggested, although he himself sounded worried. "You said he had apartments everywhere."

Hedia returned from the restroom just in time, looking relieved she made the bus. "He's behind the entrance barrier, on the phone." She pointed over to a stone column topped with a lamp post, next to which a tall man in a suit could just be made out amongst the shadows.

Gilbert slid his phone shut and approached them again. "Oz, we need to talk."

Surprised, Oz nodded, and the two walked a little ways away from Hedia and Anderson, conversing in low voices. As their companions watched, Oz's face dropped from concern and surprise to harsh seriousness.

Oz nodded to Gilbert and returned to the group, Gil walking away in the opposite direction down the unlit path to the parking lot.

"He's getting a cab and heading home," Oz said immediately, answering the unspoken question on their faces.

Hedia still peered after Gilbert in the dark anyways. "To Ely House?"

Oz nodded again.

Anderson looked so stunned he forgot to be annoyed. "What's happened?"

His brother glanced around, noting that no one else at the bus stop was really near enough to hear. "Edith's grandparents are counter-filing a claim of custody for Edith."

* * *

AN: Hedia: "Anderson, I s2g, you mess this up for him and _I will cut you."_ *terrified nodding*

Also, you didn't think we'd just drop Edith's subplot, did you? It takes three people to make a trio, guys. Three. (And don't think you got out of that graveyard visit so easily).

But in all seriousness, Oz getting offered a job is a pretty big deal. I mean, discrimination against those recorded as mentally ill is _technically_ illegal in most Western countries, but how many people are going to willingly hire someone with that history if they can avoid it? There's a reason Oz works in his mother's flower shop (well, many reasons, actually, but that's one of them).

Also, Echo was pretty intimidating early in the series. Less so to Oz as time went on, but I bet Hedia used that latent skill to make Anderson regret _everything_ whenever Oz cried when they were children.

Details:

*Beatrix (via Richard) briefly mentioned the destruction of Ostene back in Advance III! There's a lot more to it, but basically, after the Great War, Sable regained its independence after the back to back revolution/invasion/world war. And by that, I mean they and their allies defeated the many countries that invaded, and one that lost particularly hard was Idvitz, which held a grudge it finally acted on when Sable got a weak king in 1947. Idvitz invaded again and successfully annexed Sable in 1948. The cousin of the exiled Sablen king, Géraud, Arch Duke of Glaive, returned some six years later to claim the throne for himself and led an Idonian army in to recapture the country. His first act, though, was to capture the Idvitzen capital of Ostene in 1953 and raze it to the ground, destroying both Morton XI's palace, most of the Idvitzen nobility's homes, and the famous Hanging Gardens. Morton XI then attempted to move the capital of Idvitz to Reveille—making Lamontre his new royal palace—a move which would make it extremely hard to separate Sable from Idvitz if it had been fully established. However, he was overthrown and removed from power before he could bind the two countries together too tightly. His actions, however, only heightened the two countries' grudge, and between that and the severe damage to his home country, Idvitz's nobility never fully recovered its power. After a failed attempt by the nobility and Crown to regain control over their own country, Idvitz became a republic in 1960. The older generations still hate Sable for this. Sable doesn't care because they won.

*Fenoglio Folchart is a reference to Cornelia Funke's _Inkheart_, about a family that can read stories into reality. His name comes from the author of the titular book, Fenoglio, and the surname of the "silvertongues," Folchart. _The Demesne of Cynosure _is a historical fiction novel about the founding of the Vessalius Dukedom, following the Hero Jack Vessalius' oldest brother Roch as the main character, since Jack, after reorganizing and stabilizing the government with the founding of the Dukedoms, died with no heirs. It mainly centers around the political situations that led to the rise of the four Great Dukedoms —each designed to keep each other's power in check, unlike the Baskerville clan who amassed all their power into one family—and the controversy and personal strife many of the families had as certain members rose to power. The book was written from a Dukian-era perspective, and so is common required reading in college literature classes.

*Intersecting golden wings appear to be the Vessalius family crest, as they appear on brooches worn by many of the family members during significant events (some of which are simplified—the brooches worn at the first coming of age ceremony are far more modest in design than those seen later). Jack is even seen wearing the simple brooch in a flashback to Sablier. The full crest, rarely seen, is two golden wings enclosing a crown. It'll appear later.

*Ada is referred to as the last Vessalius Duchess because the Dukedoms were not technically stripped of power until 1901, a little under a year after the Tragedy of Reveille. During that time she acted as Head of the family (a very lonely position, I imagine, since there was literally no one for her to be Head _of_), and used her resources to aid those who had lost homes and loved ones in the Tragedy, opening up the ground floor of Lamontre as a shelter for the ill and homeless. The one thing of grandeur she added to the estate before she lost it was the addition of two new tombstones in the family cemetery on the tiny Isle of Élysée in the middle of Égaré Lake. Later, after the revolution and war and after things had calmed down, she was allowed to be interred there herself, as were her descendants and the remains of her father (which were found long after Ada had lost her privileges and title as Duchess).

*Miz Rainsworth knew who Oz and his friends were the second she saw them. Oz figured this out when she started calling him "Mr. Oz" back in Advance X, despite never asking his name. She's pretty relieved to meet him, actually—she was raised on stories about her grandmother's friends, and Oz, Alice and Great-Uncle Xerxes in particular were her childhood heroes (she went as Alice Baskerville for All Hallows Day three years in a row; to her mild disappointment, nobody outside the former Pandora members' families knew who that was. She had better luck when she went as Oz himself in middle school, though she was still sometimes confused for Ada Vessalius because of Oz's taste in clothes [so much lace, so many bows. So. Many. Bows.] and no one could understand why her top hat had rabbit ears on it.


	14. Advance XIII: Twist

Wow, thank you for all the reviews, everyone! It seems this story got really popular on Saturday.

I have to announce that I won't be updating until this Friday. I'm celebrating my birthday on Wednesday and won't be near a computer, so once again I will be messing up my every-other-day update schedule. As an early forgiveness present, there's a bonus being uploaded with this chapter!

This chapter: the title doesn't mean what you think it means. Really.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XIII: ~Twist~_

The sprinklers in the left wing began going off before he could finish pruning the dead flower heads, soaking the back of his light cotton button-up as he crouched over the dirt beds on his knees. He didn't really have a problem with it though—decades of paperwork and secret politics had made him miss the simple days of helping Ada ready the flower garden for her stuffed animal picnics and birthday surprises for Oz. Despite Richard and Beatrix's insistence that he didn't need to help, he liked the peaceful mood of the little glass flower shop. Whenever things inside the Tale household became too stressful—which they had been, for the last few days, now that the elder Lymans were staying somewhere in Carillon—Le Panier de Fleurs was a nice respite from the chaos.

His current favorite flowers in inventory were the sweet pea blossoms climbing the trellises in bed 34, which had bloomed just after his arrival. But right now, he was taking care of the golden roses, whose patch for some reason had begun wilting around the edges. An added benefit of this was that most people saw him as occupied and were leaving him alone to his work and thoughts.

All except one.

"Excuse me, young man," asked a cragged old voice for the thirty-fifth time in four days.

Gilbert sighed anxiously and sat up, brushing some dirt off his sleeves and onto his black apron. "Yes?"

"Have we met before?"

"Probably, Mr. West."

"Hmm…" the man inspected him. "Aren't you the man always around Oz? Yes, got to protect him from that terrorizer, she's here far too much for my liking…"

"Mr. West, do you know where Missus Hektor is? I'm sure she'd love to hear all about this…" He glanced away towards the door, relief flooding him at the now-familiar figure.

"Oh no. She keeps taking me away from my work! How is anyone supposed to run a business with _her_ around?" Unknowing of the woman approaching him from behind, he went on, "It's all those years in Idvitz, really. Aemelia says there's trouble brewing over there now; might break out in riots soon."

"A little too late for 'might,' Phillipe." Mrs. Hektor grabbed the back of his wheelchair and began turning him towards the main body of the shop.

"Really?" replied Mr. West's hoarse voice, quieter as he grew further away. "Well, it's about time for those Morts to do something stupid again."

Gilbert shook his head, putting down his floral shears and smothering his face with his one hand, before picking up the clippers and attempting to get back to work. But if he thought he'd finally earned his peace, he'd be wrong.

"That HARRIDAN!" SLAM, and the door to the west wing of the greenhouse vibrated on its hinges. At this he dropped the shears in surprise, turning quickly to see Oz's mother burst into the wing.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Tale?"

"No!" Beatrix stormed over to him and stole a spade off the ground near his knees, then headed over to a workbench covered in tiny pots and bags of unpotted seeds. Tearing viciously into the dirt, she dug a hole slightly larger than necessary into the first patch of soil and pressed the seeds in somewhat harder than usual.

Gilbert watched all this with a kind of horrified fascination—in his four days since returning to the Tale household, he'd never seen Oz's new mother be anything but gracious and nurturing.

"Is there… anything you'd like to talk about?"

In reply the small blonde woman made a sound like an angry squirrel and jabbed the dirt with the spade like a sabre, huffing loudly in frustration. She then closed her eyes, tilted her head back and breathed deeply.

"I'm okay… I'm okay."

When she opened her eyes again, Gilbert had gotten up and grabbed her by the right hand, pressing lightly against her as if trying to keep her from falling over.

She sighed. "I'm sorry for worrying you. I… I think I'm good now. Really."

He let go, but didn't go back to pruning. He remained standing next to her and watched quietly as she continued (more gently) to fill the individual soil pots with seeds, applying a little water here and there to get them going.

"…where's Al…Edith?" he asked quietly.

Beatrix exhaled deeply through her nose. "Edith's up in her room, responding to a couple messages and blasting some history podcast at top volume." She worried her lip. "Apparently some guy she calls Pigeon sent her some pretty panicked emails about something going down in Idvitz? She's quite upset about it."

Gilbert nodded, though Beatrix wasn't looking. "The riots are spreading," he mused quietly, almost to himself. "She's probably worried it'll start moving towards wherever it is she lives."

Beatrix tsk'd. "You know, I'm not one to agree with the angry fusspots on the news, but that country's an utter mess right now. No offense meant or anything—" she said, looking at him in quick concern, "—But if I'd have known about those riots a week earlier, I would have never let Oz anywhere near there."

Gilbert understood, but he was glad she hadn't. It was true that he didn't know as much about Oz now as he would like, but he doubted she would have been able to stop him from meeting up with Edith. The only thing her change in stance would have caused was a rift in the family, and while Oz was strong and amazing and could handle many things, from what Gil had seen he wasn't sure Oz could have survived that.

"But, I…" she was silent for a while, before picking up and finding her voice again. "Edith's grandparents are…"

Okay, she was crying, and Gilbert was back to having no idea what was going on again. As if it would sting him, he awkwardly offered his hand to her shoulder, which she covered with her own.

"Edith's grandparents are just so _angry. _We met them at the courthouse earlier and they just can't understand why Edith and Elaine would want to get away from them." She was shaking. She'd stopped crying, but she was doing the same little tick he'd seen Oz do the past few days, shaking slightly and thumbing the loose threads of her apron's seams. "And I get it. They're scared. Their child has hit rock bottom before, and they're scared that if they let her go on her way again, she'll go back to that and she'll drag their grandchild down with her. I _know_ that. I know that!"

Beatrix went to wipe her eyes on her sleeve, but he reached into his apron pocket and offered her his handkerchief.

Instead of taking it immediately, she stared at for a few moments before snorting.

"What?"

"Nothing." Beatrix took the bit of linen and wiped her eyes, careful not to get any topsoil on it.* Then she handed it back, picked up the spade again and tried to go back to planting her seeds. She faultered before the blade entered the soil.

"It's just," she mumbled again, and this time Gil couldn't see her eyes because her head was bowed. Beatrix was no longer stabbing the soil, but instead doodling impressions onto the surface absentmindedly with her finger. "I know what it's like, trying to impress what you think is best onto someone—" And she sounded so strangely miserable and self-loathing. Was she crying again? "—out of fear that they don't know what's best for themselves. I understand. I've felt that too. I've tried so, so hard to keep both of them safe. And here the stupid Lymans are, doing everything I've struggled to learn is so, so wrong."

Beatrix finally turned her back to the bench, and he could see that her rage and sorrow was seemingly spent, with only weariness remaining. She leaned back against the wooden surface, sighing into the relief of pressing her weight against the extra support.

"We haven't told you about why Edith and Elaine are in the situation they're in, have we?"

He shook his head, knowing that speaking may ruin whatever it was Beatrix needed to say.

"Elaine was this hardcore teenage rebel. She ran away as a kid, barely eighteen. Got a criminal record, got hooked on a lot of things she shouldn't have, and ended up back at her parents before her twentieth birthday, baby in toe. And they gave her a place to stay again. And that's nice, but—" Her voice hitched again, almost imperceptibly "—but whatever they did while doing it, and whatever it is they've been doing, they broke her." Beatrix looked down at the floor, rocking her heels slightly. "Or, maybe they just didn't let her fix herself. Too scared she'd break more, maybe. But she barely speaks now. She's always scared everyone will hate her, and always too timid to ask for help when she needs it, and always, _always_ ashamed of herself."

Oz's mother's voice was strange, he thought. There was pity and heartbreak; there was terror, and there was regret. And he didn't know her well enough to place the cause of any of these, but his heart nearly broke itself with her next desperate half-whispered words.

"And God knows that if I'd slipped up, my baby could have broken just like that." Her knuckles grip white against the wood of the table. The ends of her sunny hair twitched slightly with the shuddering of her shoulders.

And then there was rage in her voice yet again. This time, subtle and silent as a glacier.

"And they don't even _care."_

His hand went to his handkerchief again, and then to her shoulder. After she calmed herself a second time, he finally asked her. Despite his wish that the people he cared for most had stayed the same, had remained happily stagnant without any more fear or pain or hurt, waiting just out of reach for most of his life until he could find them again, he knew better. There were things he needed to know. And there were probably things she needed to know, too.

* * *

The door to Edith's room was open when he went back to their hallway on the third floor, but he knocked anyways to let her know he was there. She jumped from her seat, nearly tipping over her borrowed laptop in her start.

"What's going on?" He asked her.

She bit her lip, pouting and glaring at the laptop as Gilbert approached the desk she was sitting at. "Stupid Pigeon won't tell me what's going on, now that he knows I'm out of town. Just that he's glad I'm here." She kicked the leg of her desk, but it lacked strength. "I tried going around him by asking Mr. Wilde but he just said he didn't have time to give me the full story, and that he was glad I'm here too."

Gilbert absentmindedly thumbed the collection of (mostly) historical fiction DVDs on her desk, scowling briefly as _The Nightingale's Lover_ made its wretched appearance in his life again.*

"You think the riots have gotten to your neighborhood?" he asked, turning to face her so that he could hide his attempts at nudging the abomination into the waste bin behind his back.

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't touch that. It's on my marathon list for when Oz comes back." He grimaced but stepped away, aware that if anything happened to the atrocity now she would know he'd done it. "And yes," she finally said, "yes I am. All the more reason Mom should never have to go back to that place again."

_What about you?_ he almost asked, but he knew with certainty that it was a stupid question.

There may have been one hundred years between Alice and Edith, but there was no doubt in his mind that whatever her name, she hadn't changed that much. When push came to shove, she would take care of everyone around her, and trust taking care of herself to him and Oz.

* * *

AN: Gilbert's way of comforting someone is pretty much 'I have no idea what I'm doing; someone help me.' And no one's helping him.

This whole scene is a callback to Advance III, in which Beatrix briefly slips out "I don't like letting you go, baby, and I'm still not sure of this. But if it'll finally give you whatever it is we haven't been able to, I'd be an awful mother to stop you." This is a core value of how she has raised her children, something she has suffered through and been forced to learn by watching her son mentally battle through the duality of being both Oz and Lewis and feeling unable to help.

Yeeeeaah, Oz was a problem child. He didn't try to be, but he was, and he caused many, many sleepless nights for both his parents. (Anderson was also a problem child, in the more stereotypical sense that he picked too many fights and had the eruption rate of a Hawaiian volcano). That's why she said she "tried so hard to keep both of them safe" - she's talking about Oz and Anderson.

On the other hand, guess who Anderson got his temper and over-protective tendencies from?

Details:

*Mr. West and Misses Hektor return! Poor Mr. West. Hilariously, the fact that he's constantly stuck in the past means he actually knows more of what's going on than a lot of other people, even if he himself doesn't even know he knows it. Weird.

*You may notice that I'm very specific with flowers, even in throw away details. This is because I, too, am a fan of flower symbolism. There is 'regular' flower symbolism in use—with flowers representing certain emotions or messages—but there is also personal symbolism, involving birth flowers. On the other hand, Edith and Oz now have two birthdays, don't they? I can just imagine Oz being a little cheat and asking Anderson for presents on both.

*Wouldn't it be weird if, the next time you needed a tissue, some guy shows up and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket? Gosh Gilbert, get with the century here. If she wasn't emotionally compromised at the moment, Beatrix would have had exactly as much restraint as her youngest son when it comes to teasing you.

*I am never above inserting hilarious fandom jokes into my stories. Never. And the suspiciously titled _Nightingale's Lover_ is the most tease-worthy thing in existence. For those of whom don't know this, someone made a joke on Ryoura's blog that fiction writers would definitely be all over the fact that some of the Dukedoms had family members that never seemed to age (Duke Barma, Sharon, Break, Oz popping out of nowhere ten years later looking identical to his 15-year-old self, and of course Gilbert, who stopped aging _afterwards_ and for the first few decades wasn't as good at avoiding photographs and written descriptions). This created an entire subgenre of historical fiction with these characters and their variously explained apparent immortality—and you can guess what the young adult novels latched onto. To Gil, they and their authors are like cats: probably Satanic, and easily used to mess with him. Oz must never know (but he does, Gil. He does).


	15. Advance XIII: Bonus Retrace

Everything is feels.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XIII Bonus: ~Retrace~_

She had never waited for anything as a child.

Her mother and her servants tended to her for the first long year after her birth, feeding her and cooing over her and showering her with all the affection and attention any child needed.

As she became able to walk, she became able to explore, and she ventured to know many things. She followed her father, on the rare occasion he was there, around the house and about his duties. She cuddled with her rambunctious uncle in his study more often, as he signed important documents and pointed out to her brother the kinds of things he would one day deal with himself. And of course, she played, and ran, and hid, and laughed endlessly with her older brother. And after her mother was gone, she was barely sad at all, because he would skip lessons and private parties and important heir activities just to make sure she wasn't lonely.

She hadn't noticed the effort he put into making her happy, really, until he was gone.

And suddenly, she knew what it meant, 'to wait.'

They had a funeral. It was a charade, she knew, because her uncle and Gilbert had both told her that her brother had been sent to that terrible place beyond human reach or comprehension. Everyone else seemed to that know too, because hardly anyone came.

A light had been tossed into the darkness, and without it, to her, the great house Lamontre was suddenly cold, and dark, and empty. Their shared governess had abandoned her in tears, unable to face the family that employed her with the loss of someone she'd seen as an adoptive son so present in everything.

Their uncle Oscar went quieter than she ever remembered him being before. The night after the funeral, he paced the floor in front of his desk when he thought no one was looking, occasionally pausing to attempt to throw an old talbotype camera on his desk into the rubbish bin, but then, with a look of extreme pain, changing his mind.

Finally, a week after the funeral, her quasi-second brother Gilbert disappeared. She did not hear of him for another year, and by then he'd gotten a new last name to go on the thick gilt-edged Coming of Age Ceremony invitation her uncle had received in the mail. Neither of them attended.

The quiet and the shadows that had descended upon the House Vessalius were deafening, and she couldn't stand it. Nor could her uncle, apparently—he began to travel more, while her father joined the organization called Pandora and took over care of Lamontre.

When she was ten, he sent her away to school—an option he'd refused to give her brother. She met Gilbert there, quietly shifting amongst the crowd of his fellow secondary students. He managed to avoid talking to her for a week before she used a trick her brother taught her to trap him in a library storage room. Unable to hide from the situation any longer, he apologized for everything, crying, and soon she was crying as well.

It was also around this time that one of her dorm mates, a lesser noble named Bernadette, caught her frequenting the school library for books on the Abyss and invited her to a club meeting in the south annex's second subbasement.

"At night," she stressed. "Don't leave your room until the Matron's already done her rounds."

She'd never sneaked out before in her life—there was a reason she was on the recommendation list for the position of Prefect of Primaries.

Unsure of whether to proceed, she hesitantly escaped her dorm around eleven, mere minutes after the Matron's inspection. Down the hallway, across the courtyard, and down two flights of steps passed the aerobics pool and indoor bad mitten court, she paced as quietly as her feet would allow, terrified of being caught. She didn't even know why she'd gone down, looking back—perhaps she really was just that lonely.

But after seeing the pentagrams, the herbs, the vials, and the ancient lost tomes on the inner workings of the Abyss, she never once thought back and regretted her decision. What she saw in there was hope for getting control over her life, hope for getting her brother back. She'd committed to her first successful ritual before school let out that year, and was entirely, irrevocably hooked.

Over the next four years, she still saw Gilbert occasionally. They went to a carnival together in Reveille, where she'd won him a hat. He told her about his awful enemy (friend), Xerxes Break, and a girl who slightly scared him, Sharon Rainsworth. And especially about his brother, and how his obsessive habits and overt tendencies to violence scared him. The entire time he spoke, she eyed the new revolver he fingered frequently and kept strapped to his waist.

The year after she was made both Secret President of the Student's Clandestine Guild of Witchcraft _and_ Prefect of Secondaries (to the amusement of her friends), her father attempted to hold her Coming of Age Ceremony. He sent out the invitations before even telling any of them he was getting involved.

They read: _"The Honorable and Noble _**Oscar Déodat Mathis Vessalius, Duke of Flambeau**_ announces the Coming of Age of his Heir Apparent_, **Lady Ada Félicienne Maryvonne Vessalius**_. [The guest in question] is invited to attend the celebratory event at _**Lamontre's ****Grand Hall** _on _**Wednesday, 2****nd** _**of June **__**current,**__ at _**1 o'clock P. M**_**.**__ Loupe,_ _May, 1897._*

In tears, she tore it up the second she received it, then thought things through, collected the pieces, and brought them to her uncle to show him what her father had written in his name. At their request, the publishers had her father's order of invitations burned and instead submitted an edited post to be reprinted. She was _not_—as she reminded everyone who would listen tearfully—the Heir Apparent.

It was at her Coming of Age Ceremony (which was hosted by her uncle, not her father) that she met Vincent. He was quiet and reserved, smiling politely when necessary. She could tell he truly didn't wish to be there. But she saw how he stood by his brother's side, how he cared, how he wanted to make him happy. Even after years apart, even though Gilbert no longer knew him… Vincent still cared for him.

She understood that, she thought, if she understood nothing else.

She didn't actually begin courting him until the end of her seventeenth year. Bernadette, always Bernadette, had taken a position as Lady's maid to the honorable Lady Vanessa Nightray after they'd fired their entire previous staff due to a poisoning incident, and immediately noticed her friend's interest in the youngest adoptive Nightray. Bernadette arranged with him to meet her dear friend in the Redbriar Gardens—secretly, of course, as any known connection to the Vessalius family would have gotten her dismissed.

She returned to school for the coming semester with a secret courtship, which matched perfectly with her secret chamber and her secret club. And while distracted over all this occurring, her first long wait ended.

Her brother came back.

And she wasn't sure what broke her more—the realization that he'd come back different, or the realization that he'd come back the same.

He was smaller than she remembered. Slight, lithe—perhaps even more petite than she herself, making the Lutwidge uniform suit truly look like a costume in someone's game of dress up, despite him physically being the right age to wear it. His eyes were bigger, his poise less confident—perhaps he, like Gilbert, was slightly afraid of meeting her again.

(In contrast, her uncle looked far too dandy and barrel-chested for any student uniform, _ever_).

But no matter the changes, no matter the aching absence and lonely nights between them, he was Oz, and he was there.

Immediately after meeting him, a new whirlwind began. With the return of her brother came the return of the forces that took him from her. The Baskervilles, thought to be myth or impersonator, attacked at her school, dragging she, her brother, and several other students down for the ride.

And so she let her brother go. Because despite the fact that she loved him so dearly, and the aching ten years between them, she had her life now, and he had his. And wherever that winding road took him, she could tell that there was nothing she could do to stop it—even if it took him from her.

And it did.

She knew she understood very little of the situation, truly. Baskervilles, tragedies, secret plans to destroy the world—all of this was dumped in her lap by her father, minutes after her brother was captured by their family's _allies_ and sentenced to be executed.

But she wanted to be strong. Because her brother had his own path, and she couldn't help him with it. And because Vincent also had his own path, and with him she believed she could.

So she stood her ground, clung to the people she loved and held on tight. Until she was pushed off by the very people she tried so hard to keep.

And she realized, later, after the blood and brimstone had been scrubbed from her weary body in the aftermath, why they did it. And she understood—if she had been there to see her brother disappear, or to see them _all _die if things went wrong, she would have clung on and never let go, even if they took her with them.

Despite the wait, despite her love for them all, despite all they had lost trying to keep hold of what little they all had left… like smoke and mirrors, her brother was gone yet again.

They all were.

She didn't see Vincent after that. Gilbert, before he too faded from her life, told her that he'd died, but then, Gilbert had never been a good liar.

It crossed her mind for a minute, perhaps, to wait for him.

….But no. She had spent a life waiting on the outskirts of their story, holding down and defining her life by ties she could no longer keep. There was no point if all she was going to do was take the deuteragonist role in her own life. Her brother—a little stuffed animal, a horrendous monster, the possible downfall of this very earth, and through all that, one of the most precious beings she'd ever had the honor of knowing—had been many, many things in his life, but in the end he had always been the one to define himself.

Though the revolutionaries eventually stripped her of her money and titles, she was given an allowance to live off of for four years or until she was married. A small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. She had been shamed and she had been abandoned, but she would not die from that.

So she lived long and prospered, holding the broken ties to her chest and gathering new, vivacious ones. Two years into her allowance she met a man in the market, a local hereditary knight by the name of Sir Andreas van Wesel, whose family ran a plantation in the small village of Àellerécit and who, despite everything that had happened, loved her very dearly. They were wed in the autumn of 1903, amongst the backdrop of revolutionary fever, and she gave birth to her first child with the spring. She named him Orvelle—he who comes from the golden land.

As the invasion-turned-international war continued, she did as she had during the first wave of chaos. Though her house was not nearly as large, her furniture not nearly as fine, and her resources not nearly as expansive, she opened everything up to those whose homes had been bombed and whose loved ones had been injured. As her husband led the 51st Cavalry amongst his fellow military officers, she worked day and night to set up a warning system for Àellerécit and the surrounding towns to prevent surprise bombings on the people. Her Coven from Lutwidge returned to her sometimes in the night, and together they worked magic for the safety of their men at war (it was kept secret—magic, to all those not them, had died out in the Tragedy, and if the truth was different they never told a soul).

She didn't flinch when the war effort began sending mangled and disfigured men to her for shelter, or when the nurses who arrived with them began teaching her to stitch up flesh. Not even when it was her own husband's flesh she was sewing.

Her husband permanently home from the war, their second child was born soon after. Patrice was a happy child, a little girl full of curiosity who never knew the sadness of war like her brother. Mere months after her birth in 1911, a solid defeat was dealt to Sable's enemies and a peace treaty was made. And mere months after that, Orvelle died of diphtheria, aged almost eight years old.

Their lives settled down after that. They had a third child, Aurelius, six years later. They found the money to send Patrice to the only major institute left for women, Constance Academy—although more opened soon after. There was a loss of money at one point, but they managed, and Aurelius headed to college at Dodgson to learn about the stories she'd lived.

Time flowed.

The Rainsworths, who were in a slightly more desperate financial situation than they, still visited from time to time. Despite relative poverty, Sharon was still poised and majestic, and Reim ever kind to everyone he met. Their daughter Shelah, older but quieter than Patrice, watched everything with an intelligent eye before going back to her books.

Another invasion occurred in 1948, and Idvitz did its best to quell the spirit of the people. Still they survived—the annexation had occurred so quickly there'd hardly been any fighting at all. In the end, the mess barely mattered anyways; by the time it came for her to leave, Sable lived once again under its own flag.

She lived to see her son's marriage to the beautiful Viata Peregrine in 1949. Patrice never married, but devoted her life to running a couture shop in Jouet. It didn't surprise her mother in the slightest; the Vessalius family always seemed to end up there somehow.

She missed her only grandchild, Beatrix, by two years. Instead of meeting her, she met her brother again. After five months of bedridden illness in the family home in Àellerécit, Ada van Wesel died in 1960 at the age of 78, on a day meaningless and of no importance to anyone outside her family.

But the day was not meaningless. None of them were.

They interred her out on the Isle of Élysée, next to her uncle's marble grave marker and her brother's empty tomb, all of them now spread like a collector's set that had finally been finished.

And she waited.

* * *

AN: When you parallel the styles of clothing and technology, PH lands right around the end of the 19th century and the century later lands right around modern day. Though this isn't _exact, _obviously, because the two worlds don't share historical events, if it keeps following the parallels this still means that the era after the fall of the Dukedoms should be World War I. And that was _way_ too good not to write about.

Ergo: post-PH survivors = the greatest story never told.

(Thanks a lot, Gilbert).

*I put way too much detail into researching Victorian invitation cards for this.

*Fun fact: Ada's name is deliberately only used twice in this whole thing.

*The Rainsworths did not keep to their wealth after the revolution, though the Lunettes, who married into their family, kept their privileges slightly longer than most involved. Sherri worked her way up from the bottom to regain what had been taken.


	16. Advance XIV: Elysium

Sorry for the break, and I might have to take another one. My laptop's super old and been having issues—it's becoming rather unpredictable lately. I'm transferring all of my important files onto flash drives and hoping it will hold out a little longer. What a birthday surprise _that_ was!

On a better note, my dad's willing to get me a new (if inexpensive) laptop. But looking for another one might take up even more time. Sorry!

Finally, thank you to those who wished me a happy birthday! I hope you all liked the bonus added to the last chapter. I didn't get much of a response to it, but I'll assume you all liked it?

You'll be relived to find that this chapter isn't taking as many potshots at your feels as the last few. (That doesn't mean I haven't got more planned though).

Hope everyone likes this break from drama. It was hard to write, due to everything else going on.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XIV: ~Elysium~_

By the time Oz and Anderson returned to Ely House the next afternoon, Gilbert, warmly welcomed and supported by Beatrix, had become the houseguest that never left. Though his apartment in Carillon was ready and furnished, it was apparent that he didn't enjoy returning to his lonely flat, instead spending most of his nights in his guest room at the Tale household.

It was equally apparent that the oldest Tale child wasn't entirely certain how to deal with this. Sure, Anderson wasn't viciously angry whenever they were in the same room anymore, but at the same time it was clear he didn't want Gilbert there _constantly_.

But Gilbert, despite his misgivings, fit in nicely with the household, helping in the conservatory when the Tale children were away during the week and cooking meals for the family to pass the time. He acted as if he'd never left the servant mold, which comforted and concerned the youngest Tale in equal measure.

Oz himself, once he returned, began subtly trying to subvert this.

"_Gil~"_ He often whined after dinner, continuously taking dirty pans and plates from Gilbert's only remaining hand, "These are _my_ chores. If _I_ don't do them, Mom and Dad will just give me new ones!"

Oz's runner-up reminders were "I may have a new job, but it's still our family's shop, Gil," and "Gil, I'm a big boy, I can dress myself."

He acquiesced to letting Gil cook, though he often assisted, much to Gil's varying levels elation and dismay—because where Oz and Gil both were, Edith usually followed, and the kitchen, true to Gil's prediction, usually ended up a mess.

By Edith's own witness, the second weekend after their arrival repeated a similar occurrence.

"Oz, _please _turn that down!"

"Hmm, nope."

"At least stop the spinning!"

"It helps them dry."

"Please! You'll break them!"

"But I do this all the time~!"

It was a strange conversation to hear from the outside of the door, but then, Edith was well aware that Seaweedhead and Oz were strange people. They were her family, yes, but from experience she'd learned that family were always the weirdest kind of people. So when she finished sending another batch of emails to Pigeon and entered the kitchen to see Gil placing glasses one at a time back in the kitchen cabinets and Oz dancing with the drying plates to the booming sounds of some hyper, uber-happy swing dance, she honestly wasn't that surprised.

She had a better use in mind for Oz's old boom box anyways.

"Hey, Oz, this is an island, right?"

Oz stopped spinning on his heels, the breakfast plate still clutched firmly in his hands. "Uh, yeah?"

"Awesome! Let's get out of here and find a beach."

Oz put the plate down and finished drying it with a towel, before handing it to Gilbert. "There's one on our property, actually, but it's a pretty far walk from here. We usually take the four-wheeler from the shop."

"Can we do that? Egghair says the water's warm enough."

Oz stopped whipping plates with a towel, Gil stopped reaching up for the shelves in the cabinet, and both stared at her with identical blank looks, glanced at each other in uncertainty, and then then went back to staring at her. "…Egghair?"

Edith looked at them equally blankly. "Yeah. Egghair. You know, Oz's friend. She's in the parlour right now."

"She is?" Oz finally put down the dish, rushing past her to peer down the hallway.

Through the arc separation between the hallway and the entrance hall he saw Hedia, awkwardly rocking on her heels and clutching a paper convenience bag in both her hands.

"Hedia?" he asked, approaching her. "What are you doing here?"

"Um," She peered down into the contents of her bag, pulling out a CD case. "E-e-I b-brought over some of our old tapes and disks." She held out the bag and the CD case for him to take. "I figured your… your friends would like to see them."

"Oh!" he laughed. "Yeah, I forgot how long we've been doing this! I'm sure they'll love seeing them." Taking the bag, he asked, "Did you tell Edith anything about the ocean? Sure, it's warm, but there's a storm watch out for today."

Hedia raised her eyebrows. "Thought of going yourself?"

"Naturally."

"The storm watch isn't going into effect until two," she answered. Behind him, Oz could hear the soft footsteps of Edith and Gil's sock-clad feet joining them in the entrance hall. "The air might be too cold anyways, though—it's still March, after all. But I don't think she heard me say that last bit."

Oz shrugged. "We should still show them around properly anyways. I forgot we haven't done that yet." He furrowed his eyebrows, then turned back to where he knew Gil would be. "Hey, how did you end up working at the shop? There's no way Mom or Dad actually asked a guest to help out, and I didn't get a chance to show it to you."

Gil fidgeted. "I caught your brother sneaking out the night he returned from college early. I-I didn't know what he was doing. I made him pretty mad."*

"Anderson always hides in the conservatory when he's stressed." Hedia informed in unsurprised monotone.

"I was made clearly aware of that."

Oz rolled his eyes, muttering to himself, "Why do_ I_ always miss the fun…?" He shook his head in mock-disappointment, then beamed brightly again. "Anyways! If it's not raining until two, today's a great day to head down to the beach!"

"Are there crabs?" Edith asked, a strange predatory look in her eye.

Oz grinned fondly at her. "Usually."

Hedia had an equally determined look in her eye, though her voice remained somewhat flat. "Beaches experience a 79% increase in debris during and up to three days after inclement weather." She sped passed the three of them towards the door to the back patio, where a slightly sandy lime green bucket sat by the doorjamb, filled with rough-looking jewels.

"Hedia collects sea glass," Oz explained to Gil and Edith's lost looks. At their still confused expressions, he shrugged. "When Hedia gets into one of her passions, her focus goes from periphery inclusion to telescopic in zero seconds flat. We've probably lost her for the day, until we get to the beach."

"Huh," Gil said, eyeing the girl as she went.

"So, do you want to come?"

"Duh," Edith said—already clutching a beach towel in her hands. Gil glanced at her, confused at where exactly she'd pulled that from before answering himself.

"I'll go if you promise not to terrify me with a leaning tower of dancing plates again."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll stop. Gosh, Gil, it's like you think _you're_ my mom."

"I just don't want your mother to come in here, see a billion broken plates, and be convinced that I'm some bad influence like everyone else is!"

Oz huffed with exasperation. "You don't need to worry about that, Gil! You're not _nearly_ fun enough to be a bad influence. Besides, Mom usually brings her old disco CDs in and joins me, so I doubt she'd be that upset."

Hedia called from the backdoor. "Are you driving or am I?"

"_Me!_ No one ever lets me drive anything else!"

"Then ask your mom, because I could have sworn you were still banned."

Pouting, Oz turned away from the group to find his mother. "Always ruining my fun…"

* * *

Richard thumbed the files in his hands, peering over the written letters at the tops of each page.

"This might get ugly after all," Beatrix sighed. Beside her, Elaine nervously clicked the heels of her shoes together, mangling a moss green stress ball in her tremoring hands.

"They said there's a good argument for neglect," Richard assured, trying to comfort the shaking woman. "Financial abuse, too. I'd feel bad about using that in court, because it's obvious they tried, but…" He waved his hand weakly in the air in front of him, at a loss for exactly how to describe the Lyman grandparents.

"Mom?"

Beatrix perked up, glancing towards the doorway of the study. "In here, darling!"

Oz popped his head through the oak door frame. _"CanIdrivethefourwheeler?"_

"What have I told you about your speech, darling?"

He huffed. "Can I drive the four wheeler?"

"Hmm, I don't know," Beatrix said, smirking at her son, "I seem to recall temporarily banning you from driving one of those. And doesn't Hedia have her license now?"

"_Mom~"_

Richard stood up, heading to the cabinet. Opening it, he lifted a set of keys off the inner key rack.

"Richard!" Beatrix scolded with some surprise.

He turned and placed the keys in Oz's petite hands. "Be sure to return these."

Oz beamed.

"When Hedia's done with them."

His son's jaw dropped, squeaking out, "_What!?"_

Behind her husband, Beatrix's previously scandalized face fell into laughter. "Yes, dear, run along now," she cooed. "I'm sure Hedia's impatient to get to the shore."

Her son left, glaring slightly in her direction and mumbling under his breath.

"Speech, darling!" Beatrix chided as she calmed herself.

They listened for a few minutes, Richard paused in front of the oak door to the study, waiting to see if they could still hear any of their children.

Then Beatrix took Elaine's unsteady hands, meeting her eyes. "Elaine, if this counter-suit succeeds and we get temporary custody of Edith, I and Richard have a proposition for you."

* * *

Oz had rolled a towel out on the four wheeler's single-axel trailer, and Edith was now stretching out on it under the warm sun as the four of them sped down the path across the Tale family property. Oz himself sat near the front with his back to the rear of vehicle, crouching between a beach chair and a set of buckets, Gilbert huddled in the corner next to him and glaring at the axel as if daring it to break.

"I can't believe neither you nor Vincent ever got used to cars," Oz scoffed, pointing his handheld video camera at his tallest friend. "You're like twice my size; you look _way_ too big to be back here with us."

Gilbert's face had a slightly green tint to it, gazing at the black glass lens pointed at him. "I am perfectly fine, Oz."

"You never had any problem with carriages, Gil. And the horses hated you."

"I was never expected to learn how to drive a carriage!"

"Wait a minute," Oz blinked. He tilted the camera to the right unintentionally. "So you actually _do_ know how to drive a car?"

Gilbert paled further.

"Aw, come on!" Oz whined, lightly nudging Gilbert's side with his shoulder and jostling the camera further, pointing it down at the trailer bed. "You can't just _not_ tell me."

The trailer gave a great shudder as they passed the empty caretaker's cottage, the road's ruts fighting against the tires.

At Edith's yelp, Hedia slowed down slightly, her voice reaching them from up front over the dimming of the wind. "Are you all alright back there?"

Oz rubbed the bump on his head from where he'd hit the railing. "We're good! I think. Nothing fell out!"

Hedia shifted the wheeler, turning right onto a path that ran parallel to the shore.

"The beach!" Edith cried victoriously, clasping both hands to the side rails and springing upwards onto her knees. Oz laughed, filming her reaction and also fixing his gaze onto the dunes just past the row of trees lining the road, before shifting a slightly more disgruntled look back to Gilbert.

"Fine Gil," Oz said definitively, zooming the camera in on Gilbert's face. "After I show you around, it's _your_ turn to tell us what you've been up to while we were gone."

The tallest of them sputtered. "Really, it's nothing interesting…"

"Nope." Oz replied simply, closing his eyes with a smug look and turning his face and the camera lens away from him. "Don't believe that~! Right Edith?"

"Yeah!" she cheered next to them, punching the air with a fist. "Story time, Seaweedhead!"

"There is no story time! There's no story!"

Oz hummed, pretending to muse over his words. "That's strange. Edith mentioned that you were some kind of super-secret spy for the Queen."

"_What?_ That's not even true! Stupid ra—" Gilbert growled in frustration. "Edith! I told you not to tell him that!"

"You're not the boss of me!"

"Oz," he turned back to the boy (and his ever-disruptive camera), as if trying to plead his case, "there's nothing to tell! There wasn't much to do after… after what happened. I just did paperwork for the royal family! _Really!_"

"Really~? Because Anderson seems to be under the impression that you've stormed Ostene."

"…okay, so that was one time!" Gilbert had fully removed himself from the corner now, gesturing wildly with his one hand. He looked rather like a handicapped penguin in an outdated fifties' swimming tee, and Oz bit down a laugh. "And I couldn't let that creep live in your house forever! We were just close enough when we landed that that's where we started the—"

He stopped himself when he caught the excited and smug looks Edith and Oz were giving him respectively.

"…"

"…"

"Well, keep going~! What happened next?"

"Come on, Seaweedhead! Was it like that scene in _Ghost Wizards_ where you and actress Diana Knoland fought off a zombie invasion in the Hole at Sablier?"

Oz broke almost instantaneously at her words, keeling over and choking on his own air. He covered his face with his hands as the sound of unrepentant sniggering erupted from him.

"That. That is next." He managed to say between gasps of air and chortles. "_That is next on our marathon list!_"

Gilbert only groaned pitifully in response.

"I would also like to hear about Mr. Gilbert's invasion of Ostene," Hedia added in, turning off the engine from the front before hopping down and grabbing the lime-colored plastic bucket from its place next to Oz.

Though her expression was flat with determination (still gazing possessively at the contents of her plastic collecting bucket), Oz apparently found this funny enough to send him into a new bout of laughter, shooting mirthful glances towards Gilbert as everyone began grabbing beach gear and exiting out the back.

* * *

AN: Well, if you'd just _tell them what you did, _Gilbert, maybe they wouldn't be making deliberately crazy guesses!

The secret is out: Edith is a fan of pretty much any super-corny take on her friend's historical personas. The more ridiculous the better, if only because she knows something super-action-y and battle-y happened before they died but can't remember what it exactly was. Some interesting fictional explanations for the Tragedy of Reveille have been (from order of most credible to least): earthquakes, government conspiracies atomic bombs, aliens, Judgement Day (Kinda true, actually?), time traveler paradox (also kinda true?), vampire war, and the obligatory zombie apocalypse.

Even after finding out what really happened, Edith still really likes these alternative takes on their lives, and Oz—much to Gil's dismay—encourages this. (Sharon would be proud). She'll probably keep making comparisons to different media she's seen, because - having less concrete memories back than Oz does - that's a lot of what she's based her knowledge of the past on.

I don't know where "Actress Diana Knoland" came from, but I feel like Oz would find this slightly less—or, who knows, maybe slightly _more —_entertaining if he knew that she was playing the role of _Oz__ himself_ in that show. *Thinks of Allison Williams and Cathy Rigby* As for _Ghost Wizards_, I literally just picked the dumbest, most 80's-sounding thing I could think of.

Details:

*"Egghair" is a combination of different options of nicknames. It comes from the thing I thought of when I first saw her: Robin's Egg Blue. But that's a really disjointed nickname, isn't it?

*This is a callback to something mentioned _waaay_ long ago in Advance II—Anderson's habit of sneaking out and hiding in the conservatory is something he's done for a while. Pretty much everyone knows he does it (Richard doesn't even flinch when he does it in Advance VIII), but Gil thought he was going to get into trouble—which caused just more conflict.

*Both Oz and Hedia have a long-running hobby of making home videos. Hedia likes the idea of being able to record everything, Oz likes the idea of being able to preserve happy memories. Hedia's father - a studio photographer - was the one who introduced them to it. Together they've filmed quite a lot of their childhood. Clips from these may show up as future extras.


	17. Advance XV: Arcadia

I think I'll be changing my update schedule to Mondays and Thursdays. That way, even if my laptop fails, my updates will still be on days I have time to access my school's library.

Anyways, this time: while the children and Gilbert are out at the beach, Beatrix and Elaine take their own drive around the property. It's just a nice, lazy day to take a break from all the crazy drama.

I would suggest playing some stock audio of beach sounds while reading this.

(Can you guess who's ready for summer?)

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XV: ~Arcadia~_

The car door slammed shut behind the women as they exited Beatrix's Manxter dune buggy. Beatrix came to stand next to Elaine as the noirette leaned on the car's hood.

"It's not much, but from what Oz said, it's probably still bigger than your apartment."

Elaine nodded, staring up at the old caretaker's cottage. The screened front porch was built for summer days, and the great window set in a bright blue front door seemed to glimmer like shallow tropical water.

"We just had it repainted," Beatrix added. "We usually let people in town rent it out during festival season. At one point there was even an art show on the lawn, so it pays for its own upkeep, really. I think Mr. West let renters live here when he owned it." She began up the steps, Elaine following close behind. "There's one floor and a loft. Most of the furniture's in storage, but we can get that back easily."

Slipping the key from her lanyard into the lock, she opened the heavy blue front door and stepped aside, waiting for Elaine to enter first.

The woman stepped in hesitantly, entering a bright orange and white room with painted ocean sunsets.

"It…looks…" Elaine spoke cautiously, tasting each foreign word with care. "Very warm."

"The bedrooms are blue and yellow, if it bothers you. And you can always repaint." Beatrix smiled, brushing her shoulder-length sun-hair to the side of her face and leaning on the kitchen island. "Anyways, so this is the living room," she gestured to the room they were standing in, "and this is the kitchen." She pointed behind her, across the island and over towards the sink and hanging cabinets.

Taking a walk down a small hallway, she pointed to the first set of doors. "Left is a dining room, right is laundry. Behind that, right here, is a bedroom and a full bathroom. There's another bathroom upstairs, but it's just a toilet and sink."

Elaine followed her down to the end of the hallway. "Aaaand… here's the master bedroom. Nice, isn't it?"

It was definitely blue, the same blue as the door. There were a few white shelves still up on the walls, and an empty folding-door closet. Being at the end of the house, there was a long set of windows, which too their left had a great view of the ocean.

When she was done looking out the windows, Elaine turned back to Beatrix, who smiled uncertainly. "If you don't like the ocean, you can always stay in the bedroom upstairs. It's smaller, but it's the only bedroom with no windows facing West."

Elaine shook her head. "I like." She went back to pressing her face against the window, gazing out over the hazy oceanic horizon. "All this… if I, go?"

Beatrix smiled to herself, watching Elaine from the doorway. "All this if you go."

Elaine turned back to look at her.

"Do we have a deal?" Beatrix asked.

Quietly, the woman nodded.

* * *

Though it was nearly noon, the clouds had not yet covered the sky, and the beach was a blaze of white light nearly too hard to look at, sharply contrasting with the dark sapphire water and turquoise waves as they rolled in from the sea.

"I hated winter when we were little," Oz said lazily, eyes closed and scratching his leg absentmindedly with the opposite foot's toe as the dried sand started to become irritative. "The sea's always here, but I could never go swimming. The one time I tried I got a fever of 39°, and Mom nearly went spare."

Gilbert watched as the sea breeze blew the boy's blonde hairs upwards towards the dunes, but they were so light they were nearly indistinguishable from the limestone sand.

"Hmm…" Oz said, a strange sound between a tired hum and a groan. He stretched out on the towel and opened his eyes, only to squint them again under the bright midday sun. "I feel like I should bury you in the sand or something," he moaned. "But I'm too comfortable to move. Gil, bury yourself."

"Oz, no."

"mmmmbut that's not _fair_, Gil. I didn't bring my cats for you." Oz rolled over onto his back, sighting as his closed eyes no longer faced the sun. "Ceragorm and Duchess love the water; they always try to attack the tiny tide pool waves. I didn't bring them because they always upset you, and here you won't even bury yourself for me~" He'd devolved into whining, rolling off the towel and onto the heated sand. "You _suuuuuck…_"

"Oz!" Gil turned from his chair under the large black umbrella he'd set up, lifting his sun glasses slightly. "Wait, you named a cat _Ceragorm?_"

"Andy, _Andy!_" Oz reminded. He rolled over again to face Gilbert, blinking away the blue after image from the red-tinted backs of his eyelids under the sun. "Andy's a huge classical literature nerd—and that's coming from me! Ceragorm's the name of a fictional queen."

"_Ooooooooozzzz…!" _came a voice on the wind, from somewhere in the waves. _"Seeaaaaaweeedheaaaaaad…!"_

They both turned towards the breaking waves, where Edith, about twenty feet out into the water, victoriously held aloft a crab that was fighting her to break free.

"_Look at its legs!" _She shouted to them. "_So weird!"_

A seagull suddenly dived for her, and in her surprise, she dropped the crab. They watched as she followed its descent with her eyes. Suddenly becoming agitated, she gazed down at the water and began hopping from foot to foot, until she gave a strong kick that launched one of her legs out of the water.

Gilbert sighed, smiling lopsidedly to himself. "Getting into fights with crabs. And no one is surprised."

He wasn't the only one making wisecracks. Hedia, standing a dozen or meters or so down from where their umbrellas and towels were on the beach, was clutching Oz's video camera in both hands and watching Edith's fight with a smile.

Oz scoffed. "And you all complain about _my _sadistic sense of humor."

"You wanted me to bury myself because you were too tired to do it."

"That statement is factually incorrect, Gil! Your language implies a past tense. I _still _want you to bury yourself."

Gilbert's only response was a tired but fond smile, before reaching down into their cooler and pulling out a can of cola.

Hedia, done with filming Edith recapturing the King crab, approached them and dropped a well-full bucket of sea glass down on Oz's towel. She readjusted Oz's umbrella—a blue and yellow wind resistant with cat ears and a face—so that the shade would cover the towel he and she both sat on.

"Find anything good?" He asked, peering into the bucket.

She nodded, taking out an identification book and pouring out the contents of her bucket onto his towel.

"I've never seen that color before," Oz commented, pointing to one of the pieces of red glass. "And… ooh!" He gently picked up an item that had rolled into the folds of the sandy towel, revealing it to be a little rusted bell. "Is this from the wrecks?"

Hedia shrugged, and they both gazed out to sea eyeing the rough waves out just past the barrier sandbars that hid an untold amount of debris.

They picked through Hedia's findings, and by that time Edith had come in from the water—somewhat burnt and shivering slightly in the spring air. She whistled when she saw the hundred or so pieces Hedia had collected all spread out on Oz's towel. "There's a lot of that stuff around, isn't there? Weird, the beach looks so empty."

Oz chuckled in agreement, still eyeing the bell in his hands. "With this beach, I'd be lucky to find a single shell most days, but somehow Hedia always manages to find something. I was thinking about getting her a metal detector for her birthday, but you're not supposed to enable an addiction."

Hedia huffed and snatched the bell back.

"Hey!"

"Oz!" Edith suddenly decided, "Get in the water with me!"

He turned away from Hedia and cocked his head. "Isn't it cold?"

"Not in the water!" she supplied, beaming down at him, all cheer and excitement. "You're the only other person besides Seaweedhead in a bathing suit! And he looks _ridiculous! _Come on!" She grabbed his hand and began tugging him to the water.

"Alright, alright!" he gave in, laughing. He broke his hand free and joined her in walking towards the water, before glancing at the skies. "But we have to be quick."

Though the sky was mostly blue, on the horizon, the storm clouds—purple, green, and dark—had started to gather.

And so it had switched; now it was Hedia and Gilbert alone on the beach, as Oz and Edith dove through the waves.

She watched him as he watched them; his eyes never leaving her friend's small form as he tried showing off various water gymnastics to Edith.

"Maybe you should go in too," she suggested.

Somehow, through some impossibility, Edith and Oz heard her over the roar of the waves.

"Yeah, Seaweedhead!" Edith called to him, and over the surf and caws of seagulls it sounded so very far away. "You showed up in that dorky bathing suit, you might as well use it!"

Gilbert stood up from his beach chair, luminescent blush visible even under the shade of his dark umbrella. "I-It's not dorky! It's a perfectly socially acceptable example of swimwear!"

This time it was Oz who shouted back with muted sound. "For the _F__ifties!_"

"That changes nothing!"

"Gil, it's a full body one piece—the last time I saw one of those, it was on Hedia!"

Gil glanced at the girl in question out of habit, only to find that she was recording them all again on that camera.

Hedia shrugged. "Wear whatever you like, Mr. Gilbert. But things are more memorable this way, and that's what Oz cares about."

He grimaced, but got out of his chair and headed for the ocean.

The closer he got to the water's edge, the further his large toes sank in the sand under their own weight, leaving sticky impressions as he walked, until finally at the water's edge it just felt like the loose sand around his toes was rushing against the bottoms of his feet.

Edith was the closest to him, water up to her thighs and the ends of her long hair whisking around her with the churn of the waves. Oz was further out, completely submerged under the swell of the surf and only visible between humps in the waves as a patch of white and yellow swirls on the surface—and occasionally, as two bright lamps of red color that never bent or distorted with the rest of the blurs in the waves.

(It was a jarring effect to see, given that it broke all known laws of physics applying to water, color and light, but Gilbert had gotten used to seeing it over the hundred years with mostly his brother for company).

He finally got out far enough for the highest water to reach his hip, then stopped.

"Come on!" Edith dove under water and popped up mere feet from him. "Why're you stopping here? There's more stuff to look at further out!"

Oz, after what seemed like minutes, (thankfully) finally popped his own head out of the water. "Are you alright, Gil?" He called, bobbing up and down with the swell of the waves. With them about the same level in the water now, he looked far further away.

Gilbert nodded. "I-I'm good, it's just," he pointed vaguely to the left side of his body with his remaining hand, "the water always feels weird on my left arm." On his stump, was what he meant.

Oz looked like he wanted to say something, but nodded and bobbed under again. Gilbert watched as those clear-cut disks of carmine and abstract shapes of sunglow and cream shimmered through the water towards him and Edith, finally popping out of the blue again next to his right shoulder.

"You had to stop in the place that makes us both look short, didn't you Gil?" Oz teased, grinning. He brushed his sopping hair—for once free from all but his largest cowlick—out of his face and to the side, giving his friends a rare view of his forehead.

Belatedly, Gilbert realized that Oz was right: with every wave, he and Edith were treading water to stay up, while Gilbert himself barely moved.

Oz sighed, though he was still smirking. "Well, E, there's only one solution. If we can't dunk him because of his arm, we're going to have to find some other way to drench him. Might I suggest—"

"_Call from Hargreaves U!"_

Oz growled, though it honestly sounded more like a horse snorting. "This is not finished!" he proclaimed, with every ounce of childish determination that Gilbert hadn't seen since Oz _Vessalius _had tried making his younger, shorter servant eat his vegetables. "I will have retribution, Gil, or I will take your lands and salt the earth at your feet!"

"Oz," Edith spoke, confused, "we're in the ocean."

"Regardless!"

"_Oz!"_

"Coming!" And again his head went under, shimmering as he went up the shore and only reappearing when it was too shallow to keep submerged. He stood and ran up the beach, sopping wet from head to toe and shivering at the salt wind that was beginning to pick up.

"Yes?" He asked into the phone, drying his ear off enough with a towel to put the device to it.

"_Le—Oz?" _

"Andy? What'cha calling about?" Oz raised his arms as Hedia helped wrap a towel around him. He pulled away from the speaker to thank her, but she just pressed the phone to his ear again.

"_Oz?...where does Edith live?"_

Hedia looked to the greying sky before calling to the two still in the water. "You guys should get out now! The storm's coming in!" She turned back to Oz, who was somberly nodding into the phone, though Anderson on the other end couldn't see.

"Uh-huh. Yeah… I'll tell her." He sighed. "Right, right. Do Mom and Dad know?"

Gilbert came back to the chairs first, taking the towel he'd hung off the back of his beach fold out and hanging it around his neck. Edith came out last, shaking slightly in the cold storm wind that had just descended.

"Help me pack up, you two," Hedia told them quietly, gesturing to make sure they remembered Oz was on the phone. "We've got about twenty minutes to get back. Ugh, we should have been paying more attention…"

Though Oz was still on the phone, quietly nodding still to whatever it was that Anderson was telling him, he still picked up the cooler and the large beach bag and began hurrying back towards the four wheeler's trailer. Behind him was Gilbert with the two umbrellas and a folding chair, Hedia with the buckets, and Edith with the remaining two chairs and an inner tube.

The drive back was cold for all those who had been in the water, especially when it began to rain. The wind and water had soaked them all by the time they had returned, making the use of their beach towels rather pointless.

Richard was waiting on the back patio when they got back, and since Beatrix and Elaine were conspicuously not there, Oz guessed his parents had already begun running interference.

* * *

AN: What the heck is my mind even planning in its dark recesses?

*Ceragorm can be broken into "Red" and "Queen." Together with Duchess, their names are references to the Red Queen and the Duchess from _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ and _Through the Looking Glass_.

*Me: Let's have Oz's eyes break the laws of physics and optical mechanics, since they're CoM eyes! It'll be super cool! *imagines a figure swimming in the water, distorted except for two crystal clear red eyes* Wow, that's… that's actually pretty creepy…

*Everyone who goes to Dodgson or Constance just calls Anderson's school "uni" or just "u," but it's officially "Hargreaves College of Reveille." It's the filter college within the Dodgson-Constance private school system.


	18. Advance XVI: Aoife

To my guest reviewers: thank you for your reviews! As I've mentioned once or twice before, though, who's who of who's a reincarnation isn't going to be revealed until my notes at the end. And the Baskervilles won't really be showing up. This isn't exactly a spoiler, but rather a personal view which I'll probably explain either in-story or at the end. But I can say is what I've said since the beginning, that Leo is… gone already. There's little evidence to suggest Baskervilles live _exceedingly_ longer lives than the average person (despite their tendency not to age), and even less evidence that a _Glen_ survives that long. (Counting up the years, Vincent lived to be about 124, and Gilbert has stated that he would soon follow. So despite not aging, if you take out the time traveling their life spans only seem to be slightly longer than average).

Also, the conflicts in Edith's home country aren't so much 'war' as 'typical Idvitzen problems' (or at least, that's how most of Sable sees it). Idvitz, since their last defeat at the hands of Sable in the fifties, put in place a pretty dictatorial government to try and get things back under control because their country was a wrecked by the war. Unfortunately, decades later, these controlling policies are still in place, and Idvitz is constantly rebelling every few years. Mostly, this means Edith couldn't go home right now even if she wanted to.

Also, to those of you who commented on last chapter's nice, relaxing lack of conflict:

You'll be missing that right about now.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XVI: ~Aoife~_

Hedia was quickly sent home, much to her confusion—but a look from Oz and she nodded in compliance. The rest of them were rushed from the back patio into the kitchen, where wooden stools were provided so their wet clothes wouldn't hurt the furniture.

"What's going on?" Edith asked. "Why does everyone look so serious?" She turned to Oz, who'd been making silent communicative faces with his parents. "Oz?"

"Oh, um," he glanced at his parents, who nodded. "The riots in Idvitz got a bit worse. Andy just called to make sure you weren't going back too soon."

Edith huffed. "Why is _everyone_ telling me that? I mean, okay, I don't exactly want to go back, but this is just starting to get weird."

Richard bit his lip as Beatrix entered the room, attempting a serene smile as she sat. "They're just worried about you, is all."

Oz raised his eyebrows at the amount of paint covering his mother's clothes, coming to the conclusion that after they'd gotten the news from Anderson, Beatrix had started painting with Elaine to calm her down.

Edith twisted her lip and raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Yeah, but…"

Richard cleared his throat and she stopped. "We've been talking with your mother, and we've come up with a general plan for what we're going to do." He pulled out some files from his brief case, placing them flat on the table. "While the legalities are going through—and while we deal with your grandparents—" Beatrix snorted, but the noise had far more similarities to a charging bull than to anyone with a sense of humor—"your mother has agreed to go into rehabilitation."

Edith sighed with relief, sinking slightly further back into the backed stool she sat on. "Okay. How's that going to work?"

"When the temporary transfer of custody goes through, the Judge will likely recommend a specified length of mandatory time." Beatrix leaned further forward across the table, addressing Edith pleasantly. "It'll probably be less harsh than most, considering Elaine herself is the one requesting the transfer for the sake of her child."

Edith nodded in understanding, her friends' eyes watching her carefully as Richard picked up where his wife left off. "In exchange for entering rehab, we've offered her secure living until she is able to take care of herself. Your mother has agreed to move into Nouwich Cottage—the old caretaker's house—out on the grounds."

Beatrix nodded with a little more cheer. "That's the clever part, I thought. Your mother doesn't seem to respond to stress well, so suddenly expecting her to take care of herself again would be asking for tragedy. Moving her in there gives her a bit of stability at her own pace." She pulled the cottage's floor plan out of the folder, interior pictures paper clipped to it in odd places, and gave it to Edith. "It'll be a slow process: personalization of space, then general everyday cleaning, keeping the household safe and fixing damage, eventually getting a job… responsibilities should be phased in slowly, as opposed to shocking her with them all at once. These things take time, and she's got a whole lot of independence to re-learn."

Edith was smiling by the end of it, gazing down at the image of the house she'd never been inside of, and if Gilbert didn't know any better he'd have said she was almost tearing up.

"Your mother also agreed with us about the school you should attend." Edith peered curiously over the paper. "She and I both concurred on the idea of sending you to Constance. Hedia would be in your year, and it's Oz's sister school so you'll end up seeing him a lot during the week if you need him."

The smile fell. "…during the week?" she asked quietly. Oz and Gilbert shot each other looks—Edith didn't do quiet.

Beatrix nodded, her voice growing quieter and the rain on the windows becoming more obvious with the drop in sound. "Yes," she said carefully, as attentive as her son, "the Constance-Dodgson campus is a boarding campus."

Edith dropped the papers she'd been holding on the table. "Can I be excused?"

She didn't wait for an answer before darting out of the kitchen, her footsteps tapping down the hallway and up the ancient, creaking stairs. Sharing alarmed looks, Oz and Gilbert slid out of their stools and followed.

The room was quiet behind them, feeling nearly empty.

"Well," said Beatrix faux-casually, dropping the school application forms onto the table, "I had _thought_ it was going too well, there."

Richard shrugged. "I thought she would have more of a problem with staying in the cottage, with how much she talks about Mr. Wilde and 'Pigeon.'"

"School _does_ seem a strange thing to draw the line at," his wife agreed.

They both stood and began collecting the papers on the table back into the files as Richard glanced nervously up at the ceiling above them. "I do hope she's not _too_ upset."

* * *

Up in Edith's guest bedroom, the conflict erupted.

"I can't go to boarding school!" Edith shot fiercely. "What if something happens while I'm gone? An_ entire week_? She can't take care of herself!"

"But you can't take care of her either," Gilbert quietly reminded her. "Not to the extent you're trying."

"But I still have to _try!_"

"Edith," Oz said quietly, "There are some responsibilities—those involving other people—that others should get involved with. You, for instance. You shouldn't have had to suffer for your mother's mistakes." He took a deep breath, watching her reactions carefully. "But at the same time, there's a big grey area between keeping someone safe and allowing them their freedom. And as much as you might worry about her, you can't run someone's life for them, Edith—especially not your mom's." From his seat at the desk chair, he curled up his right leg, resting his chin on the tops of his kneecap and letting the other foot dangle. "She has to learn to take care of herself eventually."

"But she _hasn't!"_ Edith cried. "She can't! I've watched! I've been there the whole time!"

"And what's it done to you?" Oz asked, his voice a little stronger. "What's it _going_ to do to you? If you keep trying to 'fix' her yourself and don't get the results you want?"

"To me?" Edith blinked furiously. She tried bravado. "I'm Edith! What the heck could it possibly do to me!?"

"Permanently damage whatever relationship you have with her?" He retorted, voice still level.

His quieter voice didn't seem to drop her volume in the slightest. "She's permanently damaging herself!"

"She's not going to be the only one!" Oz objected. He unfolded himself from the chair and stood up. "Have you _always_ done this? Turned down your own chances in life to help her?"

"Stop it!" Edith demanded, crashing her right foot onto the ground, ire and strange desperation clear in her voice. "You were supposed to _help_ me with this, not stop me!"

"Of course I'm going to stop you if what you're doing is only going to hurt yourself!"

"_Hrrg_—what do you know! When have _you_ had to take care of anyone else this time?" She spat, turning on her heals and marching towards the door. "When it's obvious that your family's been the one forced to take care of _you!_"

She left the room, tears of frustration running down her face, and slammed the door behind her. The windows seemed to rattle in their frames behind her, and a music box on a shelf twinkled out a few slow notes from the sudden jolt.

And then a deafening stillness, like the eye of a terrifying storm, overcame the room.

Gilbert, sitting on Edith's bed, shifted a shocked gaze between Oz and the door Edith departed through. He'd never seen the two of them fight—ever. It was so out of character, so unexpected, that he really had no idea who he should go after or comfort.

"…Are you okay?" He finally asked, shifting his weight a little closer and peering to try to get a look at Oz's face.

Oz seemed to be winded and unsteady, face pointed towards the ground and crumpling miserably. "I just… I'm not _blind,_ okay?" He whispered, almost to himself. "I know what people went through for me." He inhaled shakily, as if he himself couldn't believe he and Edith had actually just had a fight, and approached the bed, sinking down to the mattress.

He curled his legs to his chest, his arms around them, hid his face behind them. No one spoke for several minutes.

"Edith's been trying so hard," Oz finally acknowledged, his voice small but less shaky and his fingers once again nervously picking at the seams of his clothes (in this case, his dried swim trunks). "But one day, if her way doesn't work, it's going to be hard to see all the things she's given up for her mom as worth it. If this goes on, if Edith doesn't stop trying to protect her," Anderson's anger on the night of Gilbert and Edith's arrival briefly flashed into his mind, and he was suddenly doubly glad they'd done something about it, "they might just end up hating each other."

Gilbert, older and sounder of similar memories, added quietly, "Or her mother might think she deserves that hatred."

Oz froze, looked over at him, before growing weary again and nodding.

"It's a mess."

Gilbert shifted closer to Oz, a placing a hand on his head in a sheltering gesture and absently twirling a finger around a wing-shaped cowlick.

"It's a mess," he agreed.

* * *

Returning to his room, Oz threw himself down on his bed and whipped out his cell phone. Anderson answered on the third ring.

"Any changes?" he asked.

"_Nothing,"_ his brother responded. _"How's Edith dealing with it?"_

"We haven't told her yet. She's a bit upset from something else, at the moment." Telling her that her home country was under a communication blackout from the riots _now_ would just be asking for conflict. "You hear anything from that friend?"

"_Not a thing," _Anderson replied. _"I still have no idea how he managed to get around the government-ordered service blackout to send a text."_

Oz shrugged, rolling over onto his back. "Maybe he's working on it. You said he was a hacker, right?"

"_So _he_ says, anyways."_

Anderson's online study group always had the strangest nerds. "So Dyne's still out?"

"_Dyne's still out. With riots encroaching, last I heard."_

"Great," Oz groaned.

"_Oi, Shorty, what the hell's wrong with you?" _his brother's voice came over, always the epitome of delicacy. _"Usually your cheerfulness is a constant annoyance at the worst of times."_

"There's just… a lot of things, Andy," he said tiredly, and he rolled over to the side of his bed near the wall, his shoulders shaking. "A lot of really difficult things."

* * *

AN: And again, we reach discordance.

Edith's conflicts have been… subtly hinted at, more subtly that Gilbert's, I hope. But here's the finer points I've been hinting at:

Alice, in the series, is brave and confident and (in my opinion, her most amazing quality is that she) trusts Oz and Gil absolutely. But she's also stubborn, blunt, somewhat prone to jealousy and bluster, and overprotective to the point of detrimental to herself ("Oz is my property!"). And some of this carries over to Edith.

Edith's too busy taking care of others to focus on herself, because she trusts herself to be able to get through and Gil and Oz to take care of everything she can't. But she has an unhealthy way of doing this - making all the decisions herself, not even consulting her mother (which I pointed out was going to cause problems back in Advance V - well, here we are). She's gotten into the habit of ditching school when her mom's home, as we saw in Idvitz, and when she's there she doesn't really care because it's so low on her priority list, so she gets into fights and ignores authority and generally gets in a lot of trouble.

But Oz—more self-aware in general than his previous self—realizes that Edith's way of doing things is self-destructive and can really only lead to her and her mother hating each other eventually, because if Edith gives up every good thing in life to take care of her mother and her mother doesn't get better... Well, Gilbert can see that, too, with the added insight that Edith unconsciously treating her mother like she's a liability is actually just confirming her mother's belief that Edith would be better without her (and he would know _all about that_, after all). Due to their differing perspectives, Oz and Gil aren't filling the role Edith hoped they would, and so for the first time, her confidence in Oz and Gil is shaking a little.

And Edith's upset with that. She's upset with her own reactions and expectations, and she's upset with Oz for bringing it up. And she gets angry. Because she's been pretending for a while that she can deal with this, she's been under pressure and stress for a long, long time, counting on their eventual help. And she met Oz again, but it doesn't help that he seems to have a perfect life. And she's happy for him—really. But even though, from what she can see, he's never had to deal with any sort of problems like this, he still thinks he can tell her how to deal with her mom. Her anger brings out her blunt side even more, and then she says things she doesn't whole-heartedly mean, because they're the things that will dig in the most.

And then all of this ignites, and kaboom, conflict. Hurt Oz, hurt Edith, and Gil the Awkward Turtle.

(Let's just be thankful Anderson wasn't here, because if he saw her going after his brother like that there'd be more than just one explosion going on).

Details:

*Edith's address back in Advance V was based entirely on L. Frank Baum and the Wizard of Oz. Dyne, the town Edith lived in back in Idvitz comes from Edith Van Dyne, another pen-name Baum wrote under. (Yes, just like "Lewis," Edith is a duo-referencing name).

*The riots, first mentioned back in Advance XIII, are back in full swing. Anderson doesn't really know Edith, but he knows she's Oz's friend, so he called while they were at the beach to confirm where she lived and warn Oz not to let her return just yet (not that that's really viable, but Andy doesn't really know what's going on with that either). We'll be hearing more about them, probably.


	19. Advance XVII: Muireasg

To my reviewers: thank you for your reviews! It's such a motivation boost to get them. I was particularly worried about last chapter, actually, because I know I have some die-hard Alice fans amongst you.

To my Guest: Being confused over PH even after a reread doesn't make you a false fan, it makes you human. Pandora Hearts is pretty much the poster child of 'Mind Screw Plot,' after all (though not quite up there with TRC, because at least PH can be _mostly_ understood under the realms of normal human intellect).

To answer your question about Chains, the simple answer is this: no. Even during the reign of the Dukedoms in-series, the general populace weren't informed about the existence of Chains. Heck, before Oz's first Coming of Age Ceremony, he considered the Abyss and the beings within it to be scary fairytales to scare his sister with. That's pretty much what they amount to nowadays—local color. With the internationalization of story books and narratives, the fairytale of the Abyss is a fairly well-known fictional location, as well as Wonderland or Narnia is for us. The idea of the Abyss was actually used for the setting of a recent movie _Clockwork_ mentioned previously in the Bonus Podcast, where it was depicted as a polarized world of nonsense entirely inside the prisoner's head.*

Society-wise one could compare Sable to England with French aesthetics; the nobles of today are rich but not particularly politically powerful, and the activities of the old nobles from centuries past (those who actually did things) are cloaked in mystery. There are some who have carried down the stories of when fairytales were Sable's reality, of the days when a stuffed plush rabbit, a girl formerly locked in a tower, and a mad old knight moved within Sable's noble circles as they pleased. They aren't high in number, though, anymore—the Barma, Baskerville, and Nightray families are all extinct as far as formalities go, and the Vessalius name is gone despite the bloodline still existing. Many who knew were shushed by the hand of the royal family eventually, whether by money or by offers of positions that required silence.

Chains are still real—they existed before the Abyss was corrupted, and so they likely still exist now that the corruption has been removed. Their sanity and home has been restored, though, and so illegal contracts occur less now due to far less Chains breaking through the Way to make contracts. The direct effects of the Abyss on the "real" world are altogether lessening, only truly found nowadays in places like the Hole at Sablier, and even that is beginning to withdraw.

Magic, on the other hand, is believed to have been an actual, real thing—but its practice had been dying out for a long time, and finally the last known publicly-practicing Coven died during the Tragedy of Reveille one hundred years ago. Of course, many still assume that there are underground Covens out there somewhere, and they'd be right. Beatrix's mother, Viata, died two years ago, and the Tales haven't finished going through all of the stuff they inherited. Won't _they_ be surprised. (PS: she got it from Ada).

But to the general public, magic is lost knowledge and Chains are fairytales. To those who know better, magic is real and Chains are phantoms of a mad age long gone. Strange, no?

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XVII:_ ~_Muireasg~_

Edith wasn't easy to find. After assuring Oz that he would find her, Gil took off through the house looking.

She was absent from the third floor altogether—she couldn't be in her own room, because that was where she'd just fled from, and he'd checked Oz's, but the only things in there were _a ridiculous amount of books._ The rest of the rooms on the third floor were disused servant rooms, bathrooms, Anderson's and Mr. and Mrs. Tale's rooms, a solarium and more empty guest rooms.

She wasn't in the family's library on the second floor either, or the old nursery, breakfast room, veranda or Mr. Tale's office (not that he expected her to be there).

He almost ran directly into Hedia as he came down the main staircase, as she apparently was still gathering her things in the entrance hallway. She pointed him to the double doors at the back of the house, which opened up to a large patio framing the Barma's old Dukian-style garden—though she suddenly seemed very testy, and sent the doors dark looks as she gathered her things.

It was still raining as he exited the house for the back patio, and he snatched an umbrella from the stand by the door before he left. Ponds of water had filled ruts in the sandy soil, seeping deep between gaps in the yard tiles. Tiny clicking trickles of silvery light rained from the sky and pooled onto leaves and window glass, dripping down in smooth brushstrokes only to be shaken by wild cracking whips of thunder.

If Edith was out there, there was no doubt she was soaked.

And she was, when he found her. She was lying on a covered bench in a hard-to-find crook of Ivan Barma's precious water garden, hidden by large walls of topiary bushes and the general muted affect the clouds had on outdoor light, but the covered bench hadn't prevented her from getting wet on the way out. She was curled up on the seat with her head lying on the arm rest, watching the garden's center fountain overflow itself in the rain.

Gilbert had been the only one to change his clothes after the beach, and as he took off his jacket and laid it over the teenager's small form, he was quite glad he did so.

"Oz isn't mad at me, is he?" She asked, voice uncharacteristically small. She sat up, unfolding her legs and hugging the dark coat around her.

"He's not," Gilbert quickly responded, his baritone low and always carrying a kind of music about it. "He just thought it might be better if you and I talked for a little bit."

"He is, then," she decided, pulling the coat further around her.

"Is not."

She gave him a pouting glare but didn't bite back again.

They drifted into silence, watching the rain for several minutes as the red roses on the bushes began to lose their color under the grey skies and a duck paddled around the canal just outside the Tale property line. As the current of the canal carried it under the flow of runoff from a pipe on the side, it flew off and landed into the garden fountain, splashing and ruffling its feathers in the damp.

Edith fingered a rose on the hedge next to her, petals glistening with jewel-like water droplets. "I don't care about school," she started off. When no sound but the rain interrupted, she continued. "I haven't for a long time. It's awful there, and I could never seem to get out of it."

"Why?" Gilbert asked, eyebrows raised. "I've seen your collection. You seem to really like history, and you're always talking about choir."

"Because… a lot of things." Edith bit her lip. "I know this may seem redundant, but have you been told about my mom?"

"Told what—that she's an addict who needs rehab, or that she's a runaway?"

"Both," Edith confirmed, slipping her arms into the much larger sleeves of Gilbert's coat and scooting over to him for warmth. "When mom was eighteen, she ran away. Thought that grandpa and grandma were too controlling, I guess. She ended up in Dyne, a whole country away from them, but things fell apart really fast and she ended up going back to them after she had me.

"And grandma and grandpa were okay with paying for her again, because there's still some money to the Lyman family name and so they're pretty well off even if they're not rich like Oz. And they were really concerned when she disappeared. But she was a huge mess, and she had me, and as much as they say they love her, they didn't want her near anyone who knew them. So they paid for our apartment back in Dyne, in a nicer neighborhood than Mom had been living in, and, I don't know," Edith rubbed her hands together. "maybe they were hoping getting her out of money trouble would get her out of all the bad habits she'd used to deal with her money trouble, too. But it didn't. And they were too embarrassed to send her to rehab, I think. And even though we were in a nicer part of town, everyone still knew Mom from all the things she'd done before. Dyne's not that big, after all."

He wanted to ask her… something. He wasn't sure. Or say something comforting, but he had no idea what. The past was past, and facts were facts, and nothing he could say would change it. He'd been there, after all—dirt poor and looked at as if he was an infestation. Nothing one said could make it better.

"In grade school a lot of the kids stayed away from me because their parents treated us like we were diseased, and I guess kids pick up on that quick. In middle school they started finding out why, and everyone started referring to me as "the slut's" daughter. And I think that's when I started getting kicked out of school, but somehow grandma and grandpa always managed to get me put back in." Edith shrugged, but it turned into a sneeze. "The cold air's making my nose itch." She complained.

"Anyways, school isn't really that important, you see?" she appealed, lifting her head from Gilbert's shoulder to look at him. "Oz will see that too, he has to! I'm pretty much self-taught anyways when it comes to anything actually worthwhile; there's no point in sending me if school's just gonna take me away from Mom when she might need me. I can study from home—that's what I've always done!" She pulled her legs up and sat on them to make herself taller in her seat, yanking at his coat sleeve. "Right? I still do that, right?"

"I-I can't—" He groaned quietly to himself, thinking. "Edith, I can't decide that. But this isn't really the time to decide that anyways. You ran out of the kitchen before Mr. and Mrs. Tale could say it, but this plan won't even start until all the legalities are finished with your grandparents, and it'll probably be Constance's summer holidays by then anyways. This won't be happening for _months."_

Edith blinked up at him. "What?"

He didn't let her finish her question, eager to get the words out of his mouth before he messed them up somehow. "Even when you do go to school, your mother won't be here anyways. Mrs. Tale mentioned to Oz this morning that your mother's rehabilitation will probably require her to live there for a while."

"How long?" Edith asked urgently, managing to derail him after all.

"Uh—a-a month, I think? And then about six months of day visits after." He tried to gather himself again. "L-look, the point is, it doesn't matter. Because now it's your job to take care of yourself. Didn't you bring your mother here so we could look after her? You have to let us do that, Edith."

The coat was absorbing more water from the drips in the bench cover, and sinking slowly off Edith's shoulders as she stared into the fountain, considering his words. He stood up, out of the shelter of the bench roof, and adjusted it back.

"Oz isn't mad at you," Gilbert promised, hair now inundated with water that streamlined down his face. "But he—_we,_" he corrected, "are worried that you'll one day end up mad at yourself." He didn't let go of the coat, holding it around her shoulders as if trying to guide her off the seat.

He finally took out the umbrella he used to get out there, wondering why he didn't open it before stupidly standing in the rain, and held it near her in offering.

Her eyes widened and she nodded to him slowly, getting up and walking with him through the saturated garden grass.

Gilbert sighed as they walked. "Well, that's one problem down. Now, how to explain Idvitz..."

"Explain?" She tugged the umbrella a little to get his attention. "What do you mean? What's going on in Idvitz?"

"Er," he stalled. He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to have said that. "Well, the riots in Idvitz have spread everywhere. According to one of Anderson's friends, the government's ordered a blackout on all non-mandatory communications, excepting emergency services."

"Oh," Edith said, a lot more calmly than Gilbert expected. She snorted and kicked at a puddle with her feet. "I knew about that already."

Gilbert nearly smacked himself. "You _did?"_ All that tiptoeing around the subject for nothing?

"Well, kind of," she explained casually, as if it was obvious. "Last night was the first night since I got here that Pigeon didn't spam my email to oblivion. I knew there had to be _something_ up."

Gilbert slumped slightly against the shaft of the umbrella. Served them right, really, for underestimating her.

"Hey," Edith added almost to herself, voice muted by the cloud clapping of the raindrops hitting the many pools and puddles around them. She reached up a hand that almost was able to touch a lock of his soaked, scraggly hair. "…is this why I started calling you Seaweedhead?"

* * *

Hedia adjusted her rain slicker around her shoulders and slipped the zipper up the center seam, tapping the toe of her boots against the floor to push her feet in just right.

"Are you sure you can take me, Mrs. Tale?" she asked, turning to the petite blonde as the woman in question fumbled with getting her Manxter's keys out of her purse. "You… you don't need to stay here?" She squinted through the hallway, eyeing the backdoor and the dark curly-haired woman a few doors in front of that whom Mr. Tale was leading to the kitchen.

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Tale replied in surprise. "I can't let you cycle in this weather. You never know when the roads might wash out." She leaned over and kissed Hedia on the brow. "I need all my darling children to be safe, after all."

She went back to fussing with her purse, and Hedia's smile practically glowed—until she caught sight of the patio doors again, opening and shutting as two people entered through the back.

"No, really," she heard the girl laugh, "are you sure that isn't where it came from? It looks like living snakes!"

"I-It's not!" sputtered the tall man, Oz's easily intimidated new friend Mr. Gilbert.

"It is! Seaweedhead the Sea Snake-head!"

Hedia grit her teeth, recalling the words she'd heard the girl shout from the upstairs while she'd been gathering her things.

"Can we please leave, Mrs. Tale?" She grumbled, jaw clenched. Realizing how rude she probably sounded, she backtracked. "B-because, the longer we take, the worse the roads will be."

The woman nodded absentmindedly, still searching through her bag. "A-ha!" Beatrix shouted victoriously, pulling the keys out of a side pocket. She turned, smirking with foolish pride in a way so very much like her youngest son. "Teach them to try to hide on me! Treason, I cry! And the punishment is labor!"

Hedia smiled lopsidedly despite her current mood, shaking her head and holding the door open for the woman. "If your son ever needs an understudy in the drama club, we'll always know who to call, Mrs. Tale."

* * *

AN: Edith tries really, really hard, and all her life she's been trying to move mountains. But no matter how much energy goes in, if it isn't in the right place, her efforts won't budge a pebble.

Also, Hedia is calmer than Anderson's flash-flood anger. She tries to give everyone they're chance. But boy, if you give her a reason, she'll hold that grudge forever. And she may or may not have heard the shouting from the upstairs…

*The movie _Clockwork_, mentioned in the prescript, is actually disliked by both Edith and Oz, and so they'll never watch it in their marathons. The movie is about Oz Vessalius, having been subjected to isolation his whole life, beginning to hallucinate a semi-coherent world inside his head that he calls The Abyss, and his madness causes his family to hide his existence. It's inspired by certain journal and diary entrees of friends and family during the ten years Oz was gone, mentioning repeatedly that Oz is "locked in the Abyss." Since 'all' logical, sane-minded people know that the Abyss is just a fictional place, some people use this to argue that Oz Vessalius was alive during the ten years but insane. It's basically PH's equivalent of the many psychological horror takes on Alice in Wonderland. (But PH_ is_ kind of a psychological horror story. Did I just meta-meta-meta PH?)

*Ivan Barma is who I assume Mochizuki Jun got the name "Barma" from. The name is Russian (which honestly makes sense considering the Barmas and Isla Yura, as Russia was considered a mix of Eastern and Western by Europeans and generally looked at as a highly alien society). Ivan Barma is one of the architects who worked on Saint Basil's Cathedral (you know—the iconic Russian building that looks like it comes from Candy Land).


	20. Advance XVIII: Doldrums

A brief word before we begin:

Beyond the Winding Road will be experiencing a small hiatus - missing two of its regular updates - to begin updating again regularly starting May 11. The intrusion in my update schedule is due to final exams, which I wish to focus my attention on this upcoming week, and I hope you can forgive the interruption.

Also, I'd like to adress something: I've had many messages asking why I'm so vague about character appearances, with the exception of Oz. The reality is that I'm honestly focused more on inner character than outer, and I like people being able to apply their own headcanons of appearance to the reincarnations.

That said, Oz _is_ an exception—in particular, his red eyes. I felt this was an extremely important element of my view of his reincarnated self, and I hope Mochijun also does this if she reveals anything about the modern reincarnations in the new guide book. Red eyes are symbolic of many things in Pandora Hearts, and the message behind them parallels greatly with Oz's own character arc throughout the series.

Children of Misfortune, the bearers of red eyes, were believed to be a sin against existence, and so was Oz. Unlike many other series, Mochizuki Jun doesn't shy away from the implication that this belief may even be correct—the world may indeed have been a better, more peaceful, less dangerous place without Oz. And I feel this makes the message stronger. Because no matter what, for the better or worse, _Oz exists now and has the right to exist. _And this is a message doubled through what we learn of the Children of Misfortune throughout the story.

A key part of Oz's character was _accepting_ this, and learning to love and value himself despite the fact that his existence truly has caused such great pain. Because every existence causes pain and Oz is no exception—but such existence is not without love or happiness either, and isn't that what makes it worth it?

Oz's red eyes may be new, but what they mean is not. They represent both his past struggles and new view of the world, and honestly they're too perfect for his character in my mind for him _not_ to have them.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XVIII: ~Doldrums~_

"I can't believe you actually get up this early," Hedia complained groggily, rubbing sleep from her crystal blue eyes and leaning heavily on the handlebars of her bike. Her white hair, tied in blue ribbon at the back, glowed a dusky orange under the radiance of the half-hidden sun still catching slightly behind the oceanic horizon.

School had gone out for Spring Break only three days ago. If it were her, she would've picked a later shift.

Oz shrugged. "I don't, usually. But this is one of the few times I'm actually here all day, and I need to go in before anyone else if I'm going to put this into place." He pulled an inhumanly small but impressive velvet tailcoat the color of deep sea water out of his side-strapped bag.

"What is that for, anyways?"

"Oh," he explained offhandedly, "It's just an idea, really. It's so tough to pass such an impersonal room. It's almost hard to believe it was once mine…"

She held her tongue, swallowing her urge to question as the horn of the ferry announced its arrival at Chapelier Docks.

"It'll be fun!" Oz promised. "I know you didn't get to look around much last time, due to everything that happened with Andy and Gil. But it's a really nice place! And Miz Rainsworth specifically asked to bring you this time for luncheon!"

She scrunched her lip a little, looking uncertain, and he took her hand in both of his.

"Trust me," he said, voice gentle and the lower lids of his semisweet eyes tapered by his smile.

She always did.

* * *

After getting off the ferry, biking the five minutes from Reveille's public dock to the bus station, and taking that bus to Loupe's Lamontre stop, Oz still ended up being a half hour early, just as he planned. He used his keycard to slip them in through the employee entrance into what used to be a half dozen kitchen storage rooms, but were now the gift shop and employee lounge. Asking Hedia to stay in the area, he withdrew the little velvet suit and flit-footedly disappeared into the bowels of the house.

The employee longue was pretty basic, in her opinion. The walls were lime-green. A small kitchenette and fridge had been installed along one of the shorter walls, and next to it was a door leading to a small changing-room area. The longest inner wall across from the patterned privacy glass windows was covered in mirrors. There were several plump, soft-looking couches and a long table parallel to one of the walls covered in acting paraphernalia, and a rolling hanger rack dripping with costumes left loitering around a door leading to a changing room. Bunches of fake plants stood in almost every corner.

The other short wall—the one with the employee entrance, which she'd just walked through—had cork boards and white boards running along it. The cork board was probably some kind of employee message board, covered in posts about times and dates and sign-ups for who was doing which tours on which days.

The white board, on the other hand (to her not-surprise) was covered tic-tac-toe games, what was likely inside jokes, and motivational bunny doodles drawn in a very familiar hand. The nearest one to her appeared to be dressed as Sherlock Holmes and was poised heroically with a magnifying glass to its manic-determined eye, grinning and exclaiming in word-bubble format "**I'm on to you, Vil!**"

In flowery script beneath it, someone had written: _'You'll never catch me,' _and seemingly in reply beneath that was a doodle of a smirking rabbit in a fox costume labeled with the words "**You're not gingerbread.**"*

Oz returned after a few minutes—without the suit. By then several people had come and gone from the employee lounge, including the senior manager, who introduced himself as Shah Cassure with a sly grin as he bowed himself from the room, and Vilhelmina Daniels, who paused to look at the white board before chuckling darkly, adding _'I'd taste better than that'_ to the array of comments, and exiting into the gift shop.

Oz saw what she'd written, glanced between the words and Hedia, and seemed to choose to ignore it for now—though from the flicker of his eyes as he talked to her, it was clearly a struggle.

"Are you ever going to tell me what the little velvet doll suit was for?"

"_Shhh,"_ Oz said, putting a finger to his lips and glancing at the door. When no one seemed to have heard, he grinned. "You'll find out. But you can't tell them!"

A bell rang in a nearby room, and Oz turned to face the sound, blinking in confusion. "Is someone in the gift shop? It shouldn't open until nine."

"I saw Miss Daniels head in there."

Oz grinned. "Ah~ I see." He darted to the break room's door, Hedia following at his heels, and peeked into the recently illuminated gift shop.

They ran almost immediately into someone else, Hedia bouncing off Oz's back as Oz himself nearly fell over from the impact.

"Ah—" Oz winced. "Will! Sorry about that."

The taller boy grunted, shifting off down one of the gift shop isles.

Oz waited for a few seconds before asking, "Have you seen Vil?"

'Will' shrugged, sitting down behind the register and running his hand through his pale slicked-back hair before putting his elbow to the table and leaning on it. He made another grunting noise as he picked up a newspaper.

Hedia mumbled under her breath, "Charmed, I'm sure."

They both retreated back into the hallway, because from the nasty glare he sent their way, they were pretty sure he heard her.

"He's _pleasant._"

"Half of that room used to be Butler Sartre's private pantry, and he hated me when I was alive. Er, last time." Oz corrected, shrugging and heading back into the employee lounge, "Maybe his bad attitude's just seeped into the floor boards by now. And Will's not exactly a morning person." Her friend shrugged off the slight. "I've got to get dressed anyways." He headed for one of the rolling clothes racks and shifted through the costume collection with practiced hands.

"I like this one," Hedia deadpanned, pulling out a red silk cocktail dress and raising her eyebrows.

Oz snorted. "So do I, but I lost my feather boa—kidding, kidding!" He erupted into giggles at her short-lived shock. "That doesn't fit, anyways, and it'd totally mess up my plans."

She wasn't going to ask how he knew it didn't fit. Was. Not. Going. To. Ask.

(Without her video camera).

"Plans?"

"Yes~!" Oz wiggled his eyebrows. "My grand master plans."

"And what are those, exactly?" Hedia asked, white eyebrow raised and voice flat.

"Why my Lady," he said in mock-surprise, lifting a blue velvet top hat from the rack and placing it on his head, "you'll just have to wait and see!"

And oh, she saw alright.

Or at least, she saw a part, and she could guess a bit of the rest. It wasn't hard when Oz came out of the dressing room seven minutes later in a human-sized version of the tiny velvet tailcoat he'd been carrying around.

"Congratulations, Oz," she commented, "You've finally mastered the engorgio charm."

"Har har, Hedia," Oz responded, whipping the top hat off of his head, throwing it and catching it in the air.

More genuinely, Hedia complemented, "You do actually look somewhat good in that." She frowned, blushing. "If only because it has enough bows to pass for a Barbie dress."

He pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll have you know I was considered quite dashing back then." He sniffed pridefully, noise in the air. "My style was considered unusual but highly fashionable."

"For girls, I assume."

He didn't even dignify that with a response, instead checking a silver pocket watch attached to his inside lapels. "Fifteen minutes to opening. I should probably do a cursory view of the front terrace, just to make sure the front entranceway is unlocked. Cassure likes to lock it sometimes on tour guides for a laugh."

"Cassure?" she asked, "The really skinny tall guy?"

He turned around. "You've seen him?"

"He came in while you were gone."

Oz suddenly about-faced, charging out the door and groaning under his breath. She followed after, darting up the corridor, passed the old lift, grand staircase, billiard and smoking rooms. She almost lost track of him once or twice, and by the time she came to a stop, Oz had managed to make Miss Daniels materialize from nowhere in the entrance hall.

The girl in question (dressed in a maid's attire of black frock and white apron) looked no happier than Oz, whipping out a master key and walking with Oz towards the terrace.

"Of course _he_ doesn't see a problem with it." Hedia managed to hear Vilhelmina complain as she caught up. "_He_ can just cut through _Narnia."_

As they approached the gilded glass front doors, she slid her key through the slot in the side and they clicked.

Oz grinned, whipping his top hat off and stooping into a low bow. "Thank you, my lady."

(From the other side of the glass, a tourist took a picture).

Replacing the top hat to his head and glancing at his silver watch, Oz nodded to himself. "Think you could give Hedia the rundown on our activities today? I've got the early tour."

"Oh, _sure_," Vilhelmina drawled, a cruel smirk playing upon her pale features. "A childhood friend who knows all the great Lewis Tale's weaknesses? She can just stay by me _all _day, I'm sure she'll make herself useful _somehow."_

Though he was preparing to open the front doors, Oz narrowed his eyes and shook an outraged fist at her. The effect was ruined by the grin he couldn't keep off his face.

"See you for lunch!" Vilhelmina waved, guiding Hedia back through the corridor towards the employee lounge. Oz waved in return, opening the doors and tipping off his hat with a flourish of his hands.

"Good morning, everyone! My name is Oz and I'll be your guide this wonderful morning. On behalf of the Lamontre Historical Association, I'd like to welcome you all to Lamontre Estate…"

* * *

Carillon's Circuit Courthouse had uncomfortable enough seats without the itchy lace abomination Edith wore. She couldn't scratch, either; every time she tried fussing with it, Gilbert snatched her hand away.

They—Edith and Gilbert—were sitting in the hallway waiting area, anticipating the opening of the court's doors for their 10:30 preliminary custody hearing. Off to the side were Beatrix and Elaine, discussing quietly with their lawyer. The real hearing wouldn't take place until late May—which Oz, Richard, and Anderson had already scheduled time for—but the judge still had to take the time to go over the case with both sides' respective attorneys, and so here they all were, at the court house in early morning.

Across from them—and giving them all stiff, disapproving looks, which Edith gladly returned—were Edith's grandparents, Glinda and Almir* Lyman. Beatrix and Almir had first attempted cordiality, but it fell short in the tensions between Glinda and Edith. The two grandparents had already discussed with their lawyer, who had then informed Beatrix's attorney of whatever it was they discussed—which Edith now assumed he was talking over with her and Oz's moms.

Over in the corner, the lawyer reviewed their case. "Mr. Marvel has informed me of the plaintiff's general defense of claim, up to and including Miss Lyman's previous history of purported financial dependency, financial neglect, parental neglect, and the unknown paternity of the child in question. They're still arguing that Miss Lyman's history of instability makes her unfit to grant temporary custody of her child to another."

Elaine looked to Beatrix questioningly, and Beatrix understood. "Paternity means sire; Edith's father."

"But none know… he is." The woman replied brokenly, still struggling with the foreign words.

"And I think it's better to keep it that way," said their lawyer. "What they're likely seeking is permission to investigate the identity of the child's father. Another viable claim of custody would make this messier and harder for us to deal with—which is probably their aim, if they can get him to cooperate."

Elaine bit her lip.

"All will be well, Miss Lyman," the lawyer said stiffly. "Most of their arguments against you can easily be said of them as well. In custody battles, it is most important to present oneself as the 'better guardian' figure, rather than undermining the other contender of custody. Mr. and Mrs. Tale have proven to be stable individuals capable of providing a physically and psychologically healthy environment for their dependents, whereas the plaintiffs have already established their unattractive repertoire of child-rearing options from the years you and the child spent as their financial dependents."

"See?" Beatrix grabbed Elaine's hand as the woman spun locks of her stringy, curly hair around her fingers absently. "Everything's going to be fine."

"And their claim of mental incompetency has no precedent, Miss Lyman. As there has never been criminal or civil action taken against you before, there is no rightful legal ground for them to use such a claim when they have taken no actions that hinted at such previously."

The dark-haired woman nodded to herself meekly, still clutching the ends of her hair like a child clutched a comfort blanket. Beatrix began rubbing her back in cyclical motions, though she was quite worried herself.

Edith just kept watching her grandparents, eyes drilling into them with such scrutiny Glinda eventually had to look away.

Point one to them.

* * *

AN: Sooo many legal terms at the end there… and this is kind of just a combination of many different countries' legal systems, because Sable is a fictional country after all… My head hurts…

Details:

*Oz's day at work was planned to act as a kind of intermission from the main story, but it didn't fit into one Advance due to being too long. But it still shows, given the Advance's title: Doldrums, a state of inactivity. It's also a region of the Atlantic Ocean with unpredictable winds that can go dead unexpectedly. (And a slight homophone of 'doldum'—equally fitting, as Hedia is our secondary lead for this bit).

*The gingerbread remark is from the children's bedtime story The Gingerbread Man, about a little gingerbread cookie who comes to life and escapes death on the cookie plate, taunting those who peruse him with the line "You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!" His hubris eventually gets him eaten by a fox. I don't know why this is a bedtime story; it disturbed me greatly as a child. Still does, actually…

*Way before Pandora Hearts ended, I came across a whole tag of hand-drawn bunnies on post-it notes with motivational sayings on them, and immediately thought to myself that if Oz lived in the modern world and left notes for people on post-it notes, he would probably draw tiny emoti-bunnies on their too. I wish I could find the page again; it was adorable. One of them had a hot-blooded, excited bunny with determined sparkles and a magnifying glass—which is what reminded me of Oz, and is referenced here on the board.

*You know, Glinda. As in, the most useless character in the Wizard of Oz (movie). The one who said she was trying to help and sent Dorothy to the Emerald City instead of just telling her she had the power to leave when she first got the shoes—because Dorothy "wouldn't have believed her." Almir, on the other hand, is the male form of the name Almira, the first name of Miss Gulch, the woman who (in Dorothy's dream of Oz) becomes the Wicked Witch of the West (again, movie only). Their lawyer, Mr. Marvel, comes from Professor Marvel of the same movie.


	21. Advance XIX: Tuck Comb

I've decided to put a glossary of terms and locations at the end of the fic, as well as commonly asked questions. They seem to take up a lot of space here lately. So, ask away in the review section if something doesn't make sense! If it isn't answered in-story, it'll be answered at the end, with the revealing of (some of) the reincarnations (not everyone got reincarnated in close proximity to Oz and Edith, after all) and the glossary of terms.

Also, I'm kind of iffy about this chapter. I had problems uploading it, and then when I was editing the site erased my first run-through of edits. So I hope it's not... off. Tell me what you think in the comments, perhaps?

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XIX: Tuck Comb_

Oz lingered in the Bachelor Hall after the tour finished a little longer than was strictly necessary. His excuse, if anyone asked, was that he was allowing the members of the tour the chance to ask him questions as they departed—and surly no one could fault him that.

But in truth, he'd spotted a familiar someone walking around the front patio just outside the vestibule doors, and was currently waiting to pounce.

"ANDY!" He shouted, popping his head out the door and causing his brother to launch a foot in the air.

"DAMNIT!" Anderson leaped sideways and turned to face him, scowl prominent as always and bearing his teeth, fists clenched around the flower stems. _"SHORTY!"_

Oz blinked, stepping fully out of the vestibule entranceway and peering at his brother's hands. "What're you doing here? And with bouquets?"

"Nothing!" Anderson jammed both of them behind his back quicker than Oz could get a good look at them.

Oz raised an eyebrow at him. _"Andy~"_

But for once, Anderson didn't give, instead looking him over. "N-nice." He said, attempting to redirect the conversation. "They pay you to play dressup here?"

"Excuse me? I'm cute as hell." Oz puffed out his cheeks in a pout, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his weight mostly to his back leg. "Have you seen anyone _else_ around here that can pull off this many bows? Besides, you didn't answer my _ques_tion~"

Anderson blustered instead and floundered around for another subject. "Where's the girls? I thought you were planning on bringing Edith and Hedia up here today."

"You don't pay attention at dinner at all, do you?" Oz shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. "Edith and everyone are over at the court house back home. They're having the investigative hearing for the custody suit today."

"Oh," The muscles of Anderson's face relaxed slightly from chronically irritable to slightly grumpy. "So you're the only one here. Uh, when is your next tour?"

The bounce back in his posture and bouquets seemingly forgotten, Oz beamed excitedly. "Are you planning on going on it?"

"Uh, I don't know." Anderson shrugged awkwardly to himself, looking like he would rather crawl away somewhere. "Just, you know… curious."

"Oh," Oz said, a little slyly. His brother was terrible at chess—of all sorts—and thus was never a great liar either. He'd gotten it from their father, and neither he nor their mother had been able to correct for it so far. "Well, my next tour is of the grounds at 1:30. It's more your style, Andy, really; it's all about the gardens and land usage. You'd love it!"

"Again, midget, I was just curious."

"Oh," Oz's face fell. "Well, to correct your previous statement, I'm not the only one here—obviously."

"I meant—" He groaned. "You know what I meant!"

"I get it, Andy. Hedia's here, somewhere—though I'm not quite sure exactly where, at the moment."

"Huh," Andy furrowed his brow. "Why didn't you just save the effort and bring Edith and all of them on the same day?"

"Are you mad?" His brother asked incredulously. "You really _are_ blind! Don't tell me you haven't noticed. Those two hate each other all of the sudden!"

"_What?"_ Anderson drawled, almost dropping one of his mysterious bouquets in an attempt to slouch against the doorjamb. "When did that happen? I thought Hedia and I had agreed to hate Gilbert."

"_Andy!"_

"What? Me and your girlfriend take our Cold War packs very seriously." Despite his words, there was a fond and brotherly smirk on his face. "But seriously, why?"

"I can't believe you haven't noticed!" Oz groaned. "Hedia hasn't been civil to her in a week! And I _don't_ know—and honestly I've given up asking!"

Anderson shook his head, as if coming to an understanding with himself. "Right. Well, can I get a tour map? I don't want to get lost again if I can help it."

"I thought you said Gil got you lost last time."

"No, _you _got us lost, stupid Shorty. That's what you get for moving around and losing us."

"I wasn't even there!"

"Exactly."

* * *

After providing Anderson with a map of the grounds, Oz found Hedia in the gallery, standing at the end of a long line of family portraits. On either side of her was Oscar and Ada Vessalius, and from Oscar's right extended another five portraits, but she was focused on the painting between them. It was smaller than all the others along its line, as it wasn't an official commission by the family.

"You do look alike," Hedia admitted breathily, exhaling slowly out of her mouth. Oz simply stayed a few feet behind her, letting her continue her observation uninterrupted—he'd always suspected she'd never fully believed him, and she probably needed this.

The painter had done a rather good job getting his resemblance for someone who had painted it post-mortem. He knew that the portrait was done post-mortem for certain, because his father had never allowed him to pose for paintings, and so the last one he could remember actually sitting for had been when his mother was still alive. But he suspected, like Duke Barma did with the portraits now adorning the Tale family walls, that someone may have just gathered up the few photographs taken in his last two months of life to give the painter a better reference.

The painting itself was... strange. The subject's face, which directly faced the viewer, was a good enough likeness of him—heart-shaped, with large, orb-like emerald eyes half-open and downcast as if in a dream. The outer half of each eyebrow arching sharply upwards, and a partially open mouth smiled peacefully. But he looked taller than he actually was, and was dressed far more regally than even he would ever prefer, decked in gold and gem embroidered tea-length apparel with a royal purple cape draped around him. The figure himself stood under a beam of golden sunlight, framed at the forefront of a grey cavernous room by large curtains to either side, lit otherwise only by silver skyglow. He faced the viewer with a serene smile and eyes almost closed, arms folded over the handle of a down-pointed sheathed sword as if in standing prayer.*

He had always known that paintings depicted more of what people wanted to think of the subject than who the subject actually was, but—perhaps because he had been featured in so few himself—it was strange to actually see it of himself every time he walked through the Grand Gallery.

"I'd never had an Auguste Stieler done before," He said, startling Hedia out of her thoughts. He looked up to the portrait with a critical eye, "My last portrait was a Pablo Salvatore, done back when I was nine. Mother and Uncle Oscar had to bribe me with the promise of new books to get me to sit still that long."

"Pretty spiffy clothes," Hedia mumbled, eyes still on her friend's painted visage, framed by a collar dripping with jewels.

"Never wore that in my life. Literally. I'm pretty sure it was painted after that whole nationalist movement in the fifties." He shrugged. "I will never understand any of them. I had nothing to do with any of that."

"Then why is it here?"

Oz shrugged. "It's just one of the things that got donated when this place became a museum." He smiled poignantly, his eyes looking up at the painting but also lost elsewhere. "You know, dead people are the most useful kind of people. After they're gone, you can say whatever you want about them, and if you shout loud enough no one can dispute you." He looked up at the alien person with his face.

Hedia watched, quietly fascinated. Behind the cheerful but genuine shell of Lewis Tale was an intelligent, analytical person that rarely spoke so openly.

"I was one of many, many people who all suffered to resolve a dangerous conflict. But because of my circumstance, my name became more useful to throw around in politics—and because of that, it was remembered. And as time went on, people applied whatever meaning they wanted to me." He turned away from the portrait slightly, still inspecting it out of the corner of his eyes and looking older and more serious than Hedia and ever seen. "The things people pay attention to do not so much come from the person as from the importance others assign to them. And there are a lot of important things that nobody even bothers to make note of."

"...Like the shoes?" she asked quietly as his voice stopped, remembering the old leather button-ups from the music room and her friend's incredible fondness for them.

Oz blinked slightly as if remembering where he was, before rapidly shaking his head. "Ah! Uh," He rubbed his neck sheepishly. "I just kind of went off there, didn't I?"

"I-I don't mind." Of course she didn't. It was him, after all—all him.

The song was back in his voice as he gasped. "We still have to meet up with everyone for lunch! Oh, I hope they don't mind if we're late…"

* * *

Richard arrived a few minutes later, kissed his wife and sat down next to Edith and Gilbert.

"I hope they bring me in first," said the Tale patriarch. "I managed to get my secretary to extend this break, but I've still got to be back at two-thirty. Anything happened yet?"

Edith never took her eyes off her grandparents. "Nope."

Richard sighed. "Slow as ever. Anyone want a game of trump?" He pulled a packet of cards from his pocket. Edith shook her head, again without breaking glares with her grandparents' bench, and Gilbert declined politely.

Their meeting adjourned, Beatrix and Elaine left their corner and approached the group as well.

"Good news?" Richard asked with forced lightness. His cobalt eyes caught the flinching of Elaine's hands, which were twisting through each other's fingers.

"It's just nerves," Beatrix assured him, placing both hands on Elaine's shoulders.

When the women went to take their seats, Beatrix whispered in his ear, "They wanted to talk to the boys, too."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She just shot a meaningful look at Edith in reply. "Specifically, Oz. For… credentials."

Richard understood, even if Gilbert next to him was glancing between his friend's parents in confusion.

"_Psst, _Seaweedhead." His son's friend, Edith, tugged on said person's coat, finally breaking contact with her grandparents. "Are they talking in code?"

The poor boy (or really, man—he was older than Richard himself, wasn't he?) couldn't even answer, just shaking his head in equal confusion and advising the girl not to be so loud.

Suddenly, the door nearest them opened. It was not the courtroom doors, but an office, and out stepped a short woman in plain but nice dress clothes.

"Judge Desrosiers has decided that the preliminary questioning shall be heard informally without formal judicial dictation," she announced. "Instead, Magistrate Moulin shall be present for the initial inquests today, as well as our formal notary, Mr. Alexis Travert. May We Granted the Queen's Authority call in Richard Tale, foremost to the inquiry, upon which he is obligated to state honestly and with no known withholdance."

"That'll be me," Richard said cheerfully. He stood up, grabbed his briefcase, and proceeded through the office doors, followed closely by the two lawyers and the secretary that had read the announcement.

Inside was a simple c-shaped desk, wrapped around two walls with an arm partially cutting the room in the middle. The Magistrate was already sitting at a chair on the inside arm, and the lawyers quickly sat at the empty seats next to her. Behind them, inside the curve of the C, the secretary and notary had already whipped out their files and computers, fingers poised over their keyboards and paper tabs.

Richard took his seat outside the C, directly facing the lawyers and Magistrate.

"There's no need to be nervous," said Magistrate Moulin casually, though she was clutching a large black book to her chest and Richard didn't look anything like nervous. "This is an informal inquiry. We're just going to be asking you some questions to give us a better idea of the situation for the upcoming hearing."

Richard folded his arms in front of him, ready.

"First off," began the Lyman family lawyer, Mr. Denis Marvel. Behind him, the notary's keyboard began to clack rapidly. "We'd like you to tell us your personal opinions about Elaine. How stable do _you_ think she is, exactly?"

Richard blew out a huff of air. "Not even a warm up, eh?" He got no response, and so continued. "She's been living with us for about a month now, and I'll admit, when she first arrived she was in pretty poor health."

"Health, you say?" questioned the Tale family lawyer, Mr. Anselme Perrot—despite the fact that he already knew this.

"Correct," Richard confirmed. "She was in exceptionally poor health. She was adverse to eating and barely attempted communication with anyone. Upon her arrival to us she was nearly comatose. She's been getting steadily better in health, and she appears to be calming down as well—but my wife could tell you about that better than I. She still has panic attacks occasionally."

For a good few seconds, the only sound in the room was the continued clicking of the notary.

"And how would you describe your level of concern for Edith's wellbeing?" Mr. Marvel asked. "If you're applying for custody, you must have some."

"True," Richard agreed. "Edith's situation is… complicated. She's a very strong-willed girl, and I'll admit her situation has so far been a difficult one. But primarily my wife and I are filing for custody of Edith because of Elaine's request."

Mr. Marvel kept his cheery attitude, but his eyes hardened.

"Please clarify," asked the Magistrate, who had previously been silent. "What request was this, exactly?"

"Elaine begged us to take in her daughter," he replied simply. "And I mean begged in a completely literal way—it was one of the first things she ever said to us, and she was on the ground crying. She was apparently quite aware for a very long time that she couldn't take care of Edith properly. But for some reason I can't imagine, Edith's never had a change of custody before this."

"Next question," Mr. Marvel said, a mite faster than his other questions. "How capable do you believe you will be in providing for the child in question?"

Richard sighed, thinking briefly before simply stating the obvious: "Financially, we'll be fine. I'm not so rich that I can't see the obvious advantage I've been given out of sheer luck. And while Edith's past background may present a challenge, we've raised two children of our own. I believe we can manage holding temporary custody quite fine."

"Forgive me but, how would your own experiences with your sound, educated, unproblematic children give you the experience to deal with," Mr. Marvel seemed to search around for a suitable word, before finally just settling on, "…Miss Edith?"

The Tale patriarch narrowed his eyes. "I believe that is a barbed question, sir. Please rephrase that."

"I do not believe that to be necessary," said the Magistrate. "Both Mr. Perrot and Mr. Marvel have been given access to your children's health and behavioral files. The question is dismissed from query."

Mr. Marvel stiffened. "Very well. What would be your approach to symptoms of mental illness should they be detected?"

"Mr. Marvel, did we not just discuss that?" Perrot interrupted sharply, turning to him. The Magistrate held out a hand.

"It is an imperative question!" Marvel justified innocently. "Children raised in Miss Lyman's previous environment have a statistically proven tendency for developing psychological and behavioral problems."

The Magistrate kept her hand up to Mr. Perrot. Slowly, he sat down.

"The question is accepted into the query." She said, clear but soft.

Richard nodded in response."We have dealt with it before," he said quietly. "And we can easily do it again. Is that the answer you've been hoping for, Mr. Marvel?"

The adversarial lawyer, for once, said nothing.

The Magistrate intoned. "All subsequent questions pertaining to mental illness, unless relating directly to Miss Elaine Lyman or Miss Edith Lyman, are dismissed from Mr. Richard Tale's query."

But the Lymans' lawyer had already achieved his goal, and managed to discomfort Richard and his lawyer, Mr. Perrot.

Point two to them.

* * *

AN: Anderson and Hedia, despite the fact that Andy would never admit it, really are listening to Oz. Slowly but surely they're trying to find who he is and where they stand with him, each in their own way.

And _ugh, _even the fictional child custody laws are awful. Each society has its own ways of addressing titled individuals, and each has their own ritualistic and legal steps customs in court. Even making up fictional ones is a headache!

Also, about Mr. Marvel: when you've been given your opponents' family's medical files, know perfectly well the situation of their family (and in particular, the diagnosed mental disorder belonging to the youngest son), and still deliberately bring up mental illness, you are knowingly and openly being a dick. Don't worry, though—most lawyers are dicks, many just aren't that open about it.

*The title of this chapter comes from a Dutch peg doll. Typically bought undressed and with few distinguishing marks, it was left to the child to decide who it was and how to dress it.

*Auguste Stieler is named for two 19th century portrait painters, Auguste Toulmouche and Joseph Karl Stieler. Pablo Salvatore is named for two other painters, Salvatore Rosa and (the obvious) Pablo Picasso. Imagining either of the latter two doing a child's portrait is kind of funny, because one is abstract and the other is dark proto-Romantic.

*Many martyrs recognized by Western religions are depicted with the weapon they died by (St. Catherine, for instance, is often depicted holding a miniature torture wheel, now so associated with her it's often called a "St. Catherine's Wheel"). Since it's believed Oz died at his Coming of Age Ceremony by the sword of his Baskerville-cloaked assassin, he is depicted in the color of gold (associated with the afterlife) and the color of purple (the color of rebirth), holding the weapon he was "executed" with. The "cavernous room" behind him, framed by curtains (ala Mochizuki's illustration style) and lit by gloomy silver light, is the Chapel-like site of his first Ceremony at Orlueur, where it is popularly believed he died. Yes, this is extremely showy and over-the-top for what they know of him - but that's kind of the point.

This painting, but the way, is _very_ post-mortem. Sable went through spurts of extreme patriotism, particularly after finally defeating Idvitz' second invasion in 1955. Since Oz was a major martyred figure of the revolution before the first invasion, images of him became popular again. (Oz is totally a Public Domain Character by this point. Completely for all the wrong reasons, too).

(Let's face it: the way Oz Vessalius is thought of in 'modern' PH is just me satirizing how we see history in general).


	22. Advance XX: En Cours

Four days late, but a lot longer than usual.

I'm sorry this took so long to get up guys. One thing finishes and another begins. There are some... complications going on in our lives, with my cousin's health and my dad's and even my own, which might make it difficult to update on an actual schedule going forward. But that doesn't mean this is going to slow down much if at all, and certainly doesn't mean this story is dropped.

On a more humorous subject, the reactions to last chapter were just more proof as to why I don't ship in fanfics (lol). To make it clear to everyone: no, this story will not really have romance beyond hints. Really, no more than the manga had (though to be fair, the manga was shippy enough to ship anybody with anybody XD). Andy refers to Hedia as Oz's girlfriend because he's an older brother who loves teasing his little bro. And also Hedia, because he's known her since he was a child and she's pretty much his sister.

(And Hedia may or may not have a not-so-thinly-veiled crush on Oz, yeah. But Oz's such a natural teasing flirt with everyone, not even Andy can tell if he genuinely reciprocates—or if he even knows. It's often hard to tell what Oz does and doesn't know, honestly, because he's a great actor).

I absolutely love you guys and your reactions to everything, and how involved you all seem! :D

This is Partie Trois of Quatre for this calm lull in plot (after all, these last three chapters were just supposed to be one long interlude at Lamontre before I mixed Edith's parts in). But just because it's calm doesn't mean it's without foreshadowing.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XX: En Cours_

Lamontre's most expensive local restaurant, Le Petit Prince_,_ was an unusual but charming place made from the renovated carriage house that ran along the mansion's East side, across the courtyard from the gift shop and exterior entrance to the employee lounge. Despite nothing in it being original (otherwise, it would not have been suitable for dining), it was decorated in fine Dukian style, with each of the circular tea tables covered in lacy cloths, candles and decadent flower arrangements. Oz had wasted no time while on their morning trip to the museum in telling Hedia about its authentic Dukian cuisine and dining traditions, and from the thick drapery around the windows and fine upholstered mahogany chairs, it certainly seemed to match every one of his implausible descriptions.

"Sorry we're late!" Oz said cheerfully, sitting down into one of the remaining empty chairs, the plate in front of it bearing a little card holder with his name. He draped his velvet overcoat over the back of his seat, sat down and stretched out cat-like against the back, the cotton fabric of his newly revealed evening shirt bunching up underneath his double-breasted waistcoat.* _"Nngh~!"_He sighed contentedly and relaxed, leaning forward. "I like wearing my clothes, but sometimes they just seem so _stuffy_ now!"

Hedia nervously took the seat next to him in an equally reserved space, observing the other occupants of the table. With her as the exception (in simple shirtdress and boots), each person at their luncheon looked perfectly dressed to be at home among the finery and décor. Vilhelmina was still in her tour maid's gown, though she had taken off her cotton cap. Miz Rainsworth, wearing a grandmotherly shaw and button-up blouse, hadn't yet looked up at them, sipping some water with genteel grace and eyeing the serving menu. Finally, directly across from her and Oz sat Shah Cassure, who was holding an open book in one hand and chewing something petulantly despite there being no food on the table. When she saw that one of his book's open pages had been ripped out, she winced.

"I think I've gone among mad people," Hedia mumbled to herself.

Despite her quiet whispering, Oz heard her and followed her eyes to wear Cassure sat chewing on his paper, nearly choking on his own glass of water when he made the connection.

Vilhelmina snorted in what was somehow still the most ladylike way possible, dabbing a fabric napkin to her mouth. "That pretty much sums him up."

Hedia stared at the elegant card holder on her plate, as if daring it to vanish. "Do you always have lunch here?" '_In this extremely fancy way?'_ went unsaid.

Oz shook his head, carelessly dismissive. "Oh, no—this is only the second time, for me. Aunt Sherri pays for our luncheon when she comes to check on the museum."

Hedia raised her eyebrow at the familiar term, but said nothing. Vilhelmina, despite her ladylike façade, apparently had no such restraint. "Such a _spoiled_ little prince, cuddling up to our financial backer like that."

"Absolutely~!" Oz sang mockingly. "You'll just never get rid of me, Vil."

"Drat." But she was grinning.

"Children, children, I'm sure mummy loves you both," Cassure patted Vilhelmina on the shoulder rather forcefully.

"No," Miz Rainsworth said flatly, finally looking up from the menu. "You're all dead to me."

With the exception of Hedia, everyone at the table cackled as one, Oz leaning back and laughing without restraint, Miz Rainsworth breaking into a victorious smirk, Vilhelmina snickering daintily into her napkin and Cassure emitting some sort of creepy rattling noise with a wicked grin upon his face.

Hedia honestly wasn't sure how she could survive lunch accompanied by so many people with Oz's awful sense of humor. '_I really _am_ among mad people.'_

* * *

Glinda and Amir Lyman were brought in next, Glinda first in the tiny office.

"Do you mind if we record this?" One of the lawyers asked. The translator repeated his words back to her, and she shook her head.

"Alright," Mr. Perrot, the Tale family lawyer, began. He leaned forwards on the desk slightly. "I know this is a bit difficult, as you're operating a law suit in a country with a language you don't speak, but we need to ask you some questions." He waited for the translator to relay this. "First, how would you describe your daughter's stability?"

"_Schrecklich,"_ the woman responded. The translator turned to him and repeated her words_. "Awful."_ He continued to translate as the woman spoke faster. _"She cannot manage herself. She spends her life perpetually breaking down. Even before this began, she was uncontrollable."_

"And why do you say that?"

"_She would sneak out at night,"_ the woman answered emotionally. _"She… often…" _The translator paused, as if trying to think about how to word the next part,"…_came back wearing some horrid prostitute dress, makeup running. When she returned with… the child in toe, she was utterly disturbed. She smashed chairs when we tried to turn her away."_

"You say she was prone to violence?"

The middle-aged woman fluttered. _"Perhaps not violence, entirely. But she broke one upon her return to the house."_

Glinda's lawyer, Mr. Marvel, smiled comfortingly at her, and then asked the next question himself. "How concerned are you for her daughter's wellbeing under her care?"

"_Very."_ Glinda replied solidly, the skin of her eyebrows gathered together in concern. _"I fear it has been my granddaughter taking care of my daughter and not the other way around. Our dear granddaughter should not have to put up with that." _The woman glanced down at her lap. _"But, for some reason, she is so hostile to us…"_

"Your concern is admirable. And yet," commented Mr. Perrot after the translator rendered this back, "You have only checked up on Edith Lyman…" He shuffled his papers. "…once a month, for the past twelve years? And never looked in on her mother."

The woman went white and then a very interesting shade of rose, but did not explain or add on to his comment.

The questions hushed up very quick after that. As Glinda left through the doorway, she muttered something in Sourealen. Once the door was closed, the translator repeated it back. _"But that would be like admitting to everyone what Elaine had done."_

Then it was her husband's turn.

"_Elaine was horribly vulgar." _Amir told them, once he'd fit himself into the opposite chair comfortably enough. _"Skipped school, dressed like a tramp, painted her face up like a clown and escaped out on the town at night. She thought she was invincible. We tried to put a stop to such behavior. We took her keys to the Nova. We removed her access to a phone. Eventually we had her banned from her school activities, and made her come straight home every day. The week after she skipped town altogether."_

"And that was the last time you heard from her until she came back with Edith," Mr. Perrot assumed.

The translator repeated this for Amir, and he nodded in confirmation. _"That was the last time we heard from her. We were willing to hire someone to find her, as long as they could do so quietly. None of them did much good. She left in… May, I think? And turned up in February almost two years later with little Edith."_

"And how dependent would you say your daughter was on you from that point on?" Marvel asked.

"_Völlig."_ Amir stated this as if it was obvious, which the translator rendered as 'wholly.' _"She is a drinker and a gambler and god knows what else. She can't manage money and can't hold a job. And she couldn't act right, either, at least when she first came back. Glinda and I tried taking Elaine to a Beltane party, but she found the bar and her mother went home in tears."_

Perrot raised a skeptic eyebrow. "So you purchased her her own apartment…two countries away?"

"_We gave her money and a home to live in," _Amir defended. His tongue sped up, and the translator looked like he was having difficulty all of the sudden. _"If she's going to… be a," _the translator winced, "plunger_ in public—at a party in front of hundreds of people—she can do… that somewhere she's not dragging our name through the mud. Elaine and Edith needed a home, and Elaine was unable to provide. We didn't want our granddaughter neglected or harmed. But despite what most people nowadays think," _he added contemptuously, _"a child needs her mother. Especially a young child. Even if that mother is Elaine."_

"And how capable do you feel the alternate claimants to custody are in guardianship?"

The man blinked incredulously. _"The blonde people outside? I would not know. But Elaine has gone to them and not us, so I would not trust them with a dollar. I do not need to know them. I am Edith's family. Taking care of her is my right before it is theirs—"_ The Sourealan man caught a look at his lawyer's face and immediately cut himself short, but Mr. Tale was already looking victorious.

"Such… interesting words, Mr. Lyman."

"Indeed, Mr. Perrot" replied Marvel stiffly, "Clearly he is a concerned grandfather, distraught."

The two exchanged rigid glances with each other. The Mr. Perrot spoke first. "Well we still have more inquiries, don't we?" He shifted back to his papers. "Mr. Lyman, before we let you return to your wife, there's the little question of previous legal custody…"

* * *

Miz Rainsworth, as it turned out, had ordered for them before they arrived.

"What _is _this?" Hedia asked, picking at the platter of hors d'oeurves with her salad fork as Oz, Vilhelmina and Miz Rainsworth chatted idly about tour arrangements.

"Cocktail d'Avocat Crevettes," Miz Rainsworth answered, cutting over her own conversation. "Delicious. May I?" Oz and Vilhelmina shrugged, and so the old woman began piling what looked like cut fruit onto her plate.

"Shrimp, avocado, and grapefruit with Marie-Louise sauce," Oz whispered to her, seeing Hedia was still confused. She nodded, still slightly lost, as he turned back to Vilhelmina and Miz Rainsworth. "I'll do two shifts for the one, I _swear._"

Cassure did his hissing laugh again, and Vilhelmina joined him. "They're not that bad."

"They are!"

"I've had them on tour before; you won't even have that. I say again: they're not that bad."

"_You_ don't look like _this!"_ Oz jutted a hand out and pointed at his own face. "The first time I met them they followed me into the break room!"

Cassure clapped, eyes closed and smugly approving.

"So I'll admit, the VV Club can get a bit… enthusiastic," Vilhelmina finally conceded. "That doesn't mean you should work your shifts around to avoid them. They'll just find you more mysterious and be less likely to realize the resemblance is a coincidence."

"And who knows?" added Cassure, twirling his salad fork between his fingers like a little baton. "Maybe that president will cut your face off and preserve it in a jar. He seems close to doing that already~"

"Ew, no." Oz wrinkled his nose and pushed his plate away. "I am not running a shift that overlaps with their weekly meetings, and I'm not talking about this while I'm eating. _No."_

So Mr. Cassure ate paper and this "VV Club" was headed by what sounded like a serial killer. Lovely. Hedia was getting more and more lost by the second.

By the time the potage was served (two, referred to by Oz as "consommé sultane and tomato and vermicelli," whatever most of that was), conversation had mostly turned to the different upcoming events.

"I'll take your shifts on VV Club nights if you take my place hosting the Charade Ball with the bosses." Vilhelmina negotiated, pointing over at Cassure and Miz Rainsworth with her thumb. The two had been talking about previous soups they'd had ("There were days when we could get Mock Turtle, but that's practically a hate crime now"), but the conversation quickly changed upon hearing Vilhelmina.

"Charity, dear." Miz Rainsworth corrected with amusement, wiping the remains of the consommé sultane from the corner of her lip. "Charity."

"Right," Vilhelmina daintily agreed, though no one believed her sincerity. "Anyways, do you wish to swap?"

"Hosting the dance?" Oz leaned back slightly in his chair. "I thought that job was for the managers and financial backers."

Hedia thought Vilhelmina might have groaned there, if it was manageable in any way ladylike. _"Yes,_ but it's on Bright Day and my family's going to be in Quay Amias for the week. And come on, you just admitted that your face gets more attention than mine!"

Cassure snickered. "He's just so pretty~"

"The man-child is right, dear." Miz Rainsworth folded her hands serenely. "You'd certainly garner more attention for the Charity—only if you feel up to it, of course. I perfectly understand if you wish to avoid such spectacles. But there's a great buffet and fireworks afterwards that guests can see from the veranda on the North side of the manor." She fingered her supper fork as a waiter brought out the platter of chicken chaudfroid with scalloped oysters. "Grandmama loved fireworks. Although again, considering your record with parties, I'd completely understand."

Oz gave her a weary smile as Cassure switched from spinning a fork to spinning a plate. As Hedia reached over Oz slightly for the serving fork, his weariness grew to a mischievous grin.

"I'd actually love to~" He said, a chirp back in his voice that should have made anyone suspicious. "Especially if it means avoiding that creepy club president. But I simply _couldn't_ go without my lovely dance partner~!"

He reached for Hedia's hand lovingly, still outstretched across the plate of chaudfroid, and then burst into giggles when she lightly kicked him under the table.

"Oh?" Miz Rainsworth raised a delicate grey eyebrow, grinning. "Have you danced before?"

"We had to have dance lessons as children for my Great-Aunt Patrice's 90th birthday." Oz was still snickering at Hedia, whose expression had now devolved into a blushing glare. "We were eleven. Hedia's dad had her come over and join in when the tutor showed up, so she wound up partners with both me and Anderson. I did as expected," Miz Rainsworth nodded in approval, "but Andy was _terrible_. Mostly because he let himself become too frustrated to concentrate. He ended up making every girl at the party scared of him, because he looked like he was going to murder the person who asked him to dance."

"Miss Vilhelmina, you said you wanted dirt on Oz earlier?" Hedia interrupted out of the blue. Vilhelmina grinned as Oz looked at Hedia, totally taken aback. "Here's tip one: every single member of his family is a drama queen."

Oz gasped as if mortally wounded, nearly smacking the side of his face with his hand in scandal. "Why, I _nevah!"_

"Really?" Vilhelmina grinned.

Hedia nodded, face straight but a sort of determined sparkle in her eye. "The most normal person is Mr. Tale, because he's really quiet. But he gets like Oz if you show him new history facts or cats. Which is to say, jittery, bouncy, and at times devolving into baby-talk."

As Vilhelmina leaned in to talk to Hedia further, Oz ducked out of the conversation and began quietly talking with Miz Rainsworth. About what, Hedia couldn't quite hear.

"You know, we have a cat sanctuary here on the grounds," Vilhelmina said matter-of-factly. "The Vessalius were total cat people. The last Duchess, Lady Ada, had owned eight of them by the time she was removed from the Estate, but most of them didn't go with her when she had to leave. I think Oz passes by it on his next tour."

Hedia shrugged. "Is that the tour that goes to the island?"

Vilhelmina nodded. "That's the best part, in my opinion. A little creepy for those that are sensitive to that kind of thing, but I think it's the most beautiful part of the tour. The genuine Lucyan blown-glass fairy lights? Those really make the trip. A pity that we only have night tours by request on Saturdays."

"I…" Hedia bit her lip, glanced over towards Oz (now deep in conversation with Miz Rainsworth and Mr. Cassure about the logistics of him even _possibly_ helping to host the charity dance), and glanced back. "…I don't think I'm ready for that, yet. Not that. Maybe… maybe someday."

Vilhelmina looked stumped by her nervous reaction, but apparently knew when to lay off. Instead they finished their meal, only for _another_ platter to be brought out— to her surprise, a macedoine of fruits.

"Dessert is for fruits, Hedia," Oz explained. "Entremets are cakes and ice cream."

"Isn't this… a bit much?"

"Noontime used to be the main meal of the day," Miz Rainsworth replied, back straight and posture undeniably proper despite the ease of the conversation. "Dinner was just a small snack after dark. But once lighting improved they started being able to eat longer, which eventually turned into eating later, especially in the King's banquet halls."

"No one overdoes things like the Dukians, Hedia," Oz added knowledgeably. He'd been equally perfect of dining posture throughout the entire meal, though far more relaxed. "We turned ceremony into an art form, and then a joke."

"Definitely more of a joke," came a low grumble behind him. Oz made a face, but quickly turned it into a hesitant smile, while Vilhelmina rolled her eyes. Miz Rainsworth, on the other hand, chuckled.

Will apparently hadn't seen Miz Rainsworth there the first time. "Oh, hello Mrs. Rainsworth."

"Hello, William," Miz Rainsworth greeted pleasantly as Oz picked at his fruit.

"It's—it's not William, ma'am."

"And it's not Missus, young man."

He grunted something like a gulp. "Yes ma'am."

"So what are you doing here, William?" Vilhelmina asked, inspecting her fork.

"Oh, I just saw the Duchess—I mean, I saw your little group here, and… wanted to know if I could join next time."

"You'd have to ask Miz Rainsworth." She was still deliberately not looking at him as she spoke.

"Right." He ran a hair through his slicked blonde hair, tugging at his uniform's cravat absently.

Miz Rainsworth smiled, though anyone who knew her could tell it was fake. "I'll think about it."

Will nodded, backed away obsequiously, and walked out of the restaurant.

"When you treat me like I'm not suffering from Alzheimers already." She finished, still smiling despite the bite in her voice.

"What a bad excuse," Vilhelmina rolled her eyes. "He didn't even see you here when he first came over, of course he wasn't here for you. Why did we hire him again?"

Cassure was busy pushing a couple grapes around his plate without really eating them. "Because he's Précieux's lazy son and if we didn't babysit him he'd probably be playing shooter games all day?"

Hedia leaned over to Oz. "Who's that?"

"The museum curator." Oz didn't seem eager to talk about Will. "You should hear his theories on Oz Vessalius; they're a riot."

Hopefully not right now, she thought. As much as she truly wanted to, Hedia thought she'd taken as much of the world of Oz Vessalius as she could for a day. Even his food was alien to her.

Dessert—or _entremets_, as Oz called it—ended up being the only course individualized, when it finally came. Shah Cassure ordered argyle cake, Miz Rainsworth chose blanc mangier a la vanille, Vilhelmina decided upon the chantilly basket after much deliberation between it and the lemon meringue, and Oz gushed about the cherry tart until it arrived. Hedia herself was perfectly content with plain, simple, familiar ice cream.

"You could stay for the movies tonight," Vilhelmina said over her chantilly cream, picking up from their previous conversation about activities but changing her suggestion. "It's family night, but we still have a pretty good selection. Hanging around all day waiting for _this _clotpate savant must get pretty boring."

"I'm sorry," Hedia returned, shaking her head and looking over at Oz again. "We'll need to be back by then."

"The custodial inquiry was today," Oz added. "They said they'd be fine, but I have a feeling there's going to be some fallout anyways…"

"Well, even if you can't, I enjoyed having luncheon with all of you." Miz Rainsworth sat back in her dining chair grandly, arms on the rests like it was an imperial throne. "Three out of four of you have already gone white; being around you all actually makes me feel young!"

Oz checked his pocket watch and stood up to put on his overcoat. "1:17. If I may be excused? I've got to meet the next tour by the Idvitzen Cascade."

Vilhelmina nodded. "I'll put the rest of your tart in the break room fridge. You can repay me by making sure I don't have to play lifeguard to anyone trying to swim in the Cascade again, alright?"

* * *

Edith watched closely as her grandfather was let out of the questioning room. He seemed pale. After him came the two lawyers and the Magistrate, the secretary and notary following at her heels down the hallway like ducklings.

Mr. Perrot approached their group. "Temporary adjournment for lunch!" He clapped his hands with finality and exhausted relief. "There's a good place a block down from here I think would be nice. Mr. Tale, I understand you have to get back to work."

Richard was already gathering his brief case, the rest of them standing up with him and walking down the hallway. "Thank you," he said, nodding to the lawyer. He kissed his wife as he had on greeting, and to both's surprise, clapped Gilbert on the back of the shoulders and gave a departing hug to Edith.

Oz's family was so like him—so abnormally warm and open with everyone—that this display even from the most quiet of the Tales almost caused Edith to miss what she heard next.

"I would advise against it," Mr. Marvel muttered to her grandparents, far on the opposite side of the hallway. "While your intentions are admirable, Mr. Lyman, there is a precedent of unintentional neglect. No matter how justified it was," he added quickly, slightly louder than the rest of his words.

Edith seemed to be the only one paying attention. The rest had already walked through the door and down the stairwell, or were talking in low voices with Mr. Perrot, their own lawyer.

"Previous legal custody would only look bad if emphasized. It already doesn't look good."

She didn't understand what that meant (Whose legal custody? Of whom? When?), but as they said nothing else of interest, Edith followed everyone else down the stairwell. She'd simply ask Gilbert over lunch.

* * *

AN: Both Oz and his good ol' Uncle Oscar were natural social butterflies, flitting through decadent and serious parties filled with graceful dignitaries with innate ease. I figure that Oz, raised in both the modern world and the PH equivalent of the Victorian, would probably feel quite at home among the super-fancy dining establishments, while Hedia—the normal daughter of a normal photographer in Carillon—would feel very, very out of place.

Also, history will never know how much time went into learning about late Victorian foodies. On the upside, learning about what and how these nutcases ate every day's pretty interesting! And if Hedia thinks this number of courses was too much, pity on her—the actual banquets the restaurant bases its serving style off of usually had eight to twelve_. _Appetizer, soup, fish, entrée, main course, rest course, roast, vegetables, dessert, cheese, fruits/nuts, coffee. Not even the _order_ makes any sense to me. The courses served at _Le Petit Prince _aren't just fewer, they're also smaller (well, if you're dining with a small party, at least). _No one_ should eat that much anymore.

Also, I've finally figured out why Oz's clothes are so effeminate! Oz's clothes aren't gender-swapped (though a few of the ones in the Official Art seem to be), they're mostly _aged down. _I'd never thought to look at children's clothes before.

Historically, boy's clothes and girl's clothes in the Victorian era were actually gender neutral until the child was five, and then until puberty still bore some resemblances. Prepubescent boys wore knickerbocker suits, a more effeminately cut and childish version of a man's suit which greatly resembles Oz's style of clothing later in the manga. In terms of what suits Oz (who is short, small, and thin), these and other children's clothes probably would be the best styles to make Oz look presentable despite them being targeted at children far younger than him. Normal adult male clothing—like Elliot, Gilbert, Vincent and everyone else wears—would just swallow him up with cuts and proportions that would just make him look _even smaller_ than he actually is.

The gorgeous but ridiculous outfits in Official Art can be easily explained, I think. After all, doll's clothes always emphasized beauty over practicality.

(On a side note, has anyone else noticed that every guy in Pandora Hearts except Oz and Leo looks like a freaking _giant?_ Oz, Leo, Alice, Echo, and Sharon are all about 5'3—Gil looks like he's three feet taller than them sometimes! Jack seems to be the only guy of reasonable height most of the time, and he still looks about a foot and a half taller than Oz).

Notes:

*Lamontre has two restaurant on the grounds and several vendors (much like the sweetmeats vendor Oz purchased from on their first visit). Le Petit Prince, despite its name, is a mildly expensive restaurant that caters mainly to weddings and large parties (thus, its trend towards banquet-style food. Much like she's the backer of the museum, though, Miz Rainsworth owns it, so it's no problem for her. The other restaurant, Thé du Fois, is a much cheaper and more casual tea café that Lamontre workers frequent far more often.

*The name of the restaurant, Le Petit Prince, comes from the obvious - the children's story by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who had one of the best names ever. I haven't done a lot of book theme-naming in the story lately, but then again most of the basics of the settings and people have been constructed and named by now.

*"Plunger" is a word for a person who gambles constantly and wastes money conspicuously and recklessly. I am, however, perfectly aware of what the context makes it sound like.

*The "VV Club" is short for the Vanished Vessalius Mystery Club. Oz mentions he deliberately doesn't work on shifts that overlap with their Club's weekly Wednesday meetings. He doesn't mind most of the members, but their current president freaks him out, and Cassure so tactfully put to words why.

*Hedia has an aversion to "the island." The island in question is the one in the center of the lake - otherwise known as the Isle of Élysée. For Hedia, that's a step she's not so willing to take just yet. Vil probably just thinks she's afraid of water or something. For those of you who don't know what the big deal is about an island, we'll be visiting that island quite soon.


	23. Advance XXI: Surrealist

That was a _loooong_ break. I'm really sorry about that, guys—the truth is, I can't even say I had writer's block; I've had this story planned out from beginning to end since April of _last_ year, but good luck telling that to my motivation.

It doesn't help that my style of writing is funky. Many of you have asked how I construct such a detailed setting—the answer is, I throw in random things I make up off the top of my head as needed, get an idea for them, right a definition for that term in my Index, and then if I need another random thing later, I'll look back at all the other random things and see if I can connect them. The result is that the writing process is squiggly, full of moving forwards and going backwards and jumping ahead whenever a new idea hits me. It makes for nice worldbuilding, but inconsistent production rates.

Also, I'd like to address another curiosity I've heard mentioned, about whether or not Chains and the Abyss will be brought into the story more. Perhaps the topics will be touched upon, but they won't be a main focus of this story. The problem is not a lack of interest or involvement—I've been deliberately hinting at Oz's semi-frequent trips into the Abyss as a Child of Misfortune (Oz mentions being very familiar with the being that looks like him in Advance III, and we see one of these strange spiritual visits ourselves in Advance IX)—but rather a lack of information. We know very little of the daily functionalities of Children of Misfortune, Glen Baskervilles, or the normal state of the Abyss. We viewed all of these roles in a time of great stress and change, meaning that we saw very little of how they operate normally. For instance, we don't even know what exactly the 'distortions' were that isolated the Baskervilles and Children of Misfortune from society so much, other than that they apparently made vaguely bad things happen—but we never see or hear of any of these bad things ourselves, even with Vincent and Gilbert, who spent the ten year time gap with most of the main cast and thus would be known for any 'distortions' if they happened.

How would the Baskervilles function in the modern era? I have some headcanons, but they don't have much to do with what's going on in terms of Edith, Oz, and Gilbert. If anyone's interested, though, commonly asked questions will be answered at the very end of the story, with the glossary and term index. Suffice to say I doubt the Baskervilles would remain the close, succinct family they did in days of old.

Lastly, this is the last of the lull-like Lamontre chapters, really. We may have a few brief scenes taking place here in the future, but we won't be spending enormous amounts of time here again in the story proper. Maybe one more chapter taking place here in the future, and definitely an extra at the end.

* * *

**Beyond the Winding Road**

_By Emori Loul_

_Advance XXI: Surrealist_

Of all the specialty tours Oz ran during the 1:30 block, he always had mixed feelings about the Lay of the Land tour.

He had quickly grown to prefer the Behind the Scenes tour—as it involved an enormous amount of contemporary gossip and believed scandals from his earlier life which he found hilarious—and he'd even found a certain pleasure out of giving the Architect's Tour, since it allowed him to take guests to the roof, a place he'd never been allowed to go himself on the strict orders of Mrs. Kate (not that he hadn't tried).

But the Lay of the Land tour… was different.

To his surprise and delight, Hedia actually joined the group waiting around the Idvitzen Cascade just before they had to leave. He'd thought she'd had some reservations about the tour—no doubt the same ones he had—but he was glad she was attending at least some part of it. She'd been whisked away by Vil at his 9:30 block.

To his greater surprise, she was even carrying a digital camera—though Oz could've sworn she'd forgotten her own that morning.

The tour was unfortunately one of the long ones. Well, unfortunate for _him_, at least, because the tour was about three miles of winding garden paths to its end destination even when ignoring the walk back. Vintage men's shoes had heels, and he was one hundred years out of practice when it came to walking around in them.

"There are nine Empire-style gazebos hidden around the grounds," he explained once the group had made it past the kitchen garden and to a remote bridge over the trout stream. The gazebo they had come across, attached at one end of the bridge and overlooking the stream, had no solid roof and was instead a mix of iron and organic vines.

Oz waited until everyone had caught up to him on the bridge, keeping a close eye on one of the toddlers who had escaped their stroller and was peering over the side. "Each gazebo was built and named after a relation or split from the Dukedom Vessalius, though of course there's one missing. This particular one is actually quite remarkable, because it's the only one not dedicated to a related noble family. The Fournier Trellis was built in dedication to Xavier Vessalius' mother, Lise Fournier. As the Vessalius at the time were quite a new brand of prestige, the first Duchess Vessalius was of common birth, and had married Roch Vessalius in 1788, years before the Tragedy of Sablier. It's actually surprising to historians that Xavier had this built, because he had quite a superiority complex and Fournier relations remained humble villagers from Ombre."

Oz continued to walk again, Hedia further in the crowd, answering a few questions as they began heading towards the gardens proper. He gave responses like, "No, there isn't one for the House of Sibylle. While it isn't considered such a big deal in our time, back then there was an extreme faux pas placed upon building non-Royal buildings with the royal family's name…" and "Actually, the kitchen garden at one point was much larger, but it was cut down in size back in the sixties when they first put up Thé du Fois…"

The main gardens consisted of a traditional Corentin-style rose maze with twenty fountains. Oz had particularly fond memories of the Liddell gazebo hidden among the bellflower bushes, as Ada would often set up tea parties there with her stuffed animals and beg him to attend. As such, he was probably guilty of dawdling there longer than he should, and the formal sculpture gardens and optional maze took another hour out of the tour—about ten minutes longer than it was supposed to.

In the last forth of the expedition they passed the rose tree orchards, which had been originally planted in 1856 to have all red blooms but had died due to disease in 1923 and been replaced fifty years later with trees that blossomed white. At the exit of the orchard was what looked like a wooden jungle gym standing next to an ornate shed. As they approached, about two dozen cats and kittens alike rushed to the group.

"Why hello there~!" Oz cooed in a pitch high for even him, breaking his serious tour guide persona and kneeling down to pet a white cat with a golden left ear. As he did so, another rubbed and nuzzled against his shin and the flash of a camera came from the side. Addressing the group, he smiled at a few of the adults, who seemed hesitant to go near the animals. "The cats are admittedly wild and come and go as they please, but they're all checked for disease every two weeks, since tourists are always passing through this part of the grounds on the way to the lake." He chuckled. "Not to mention that the cat sanctuary draws its own crowd. They're all perfectly safe." Oz turned back to the creatures and counted the swarming group of cats slowly. "There's usually more here, huh…" and then he spotted another group just around the bend. "Vil!"

He waved, and she waved back, the other half of the feline crowd darting around her flower tour in hectic demand for attention. A familiar black cat was the only one stationary, choosing instead to lie down upon the tops of Vil's feet and nuzzle her ankles as he did quite often. Though seemingly friendly, Oz had learned from experience never to approach that cat; it had the habit of swiping at him if he came too close.

As people all around were petting cats (whom Oz had guessed, correctly, only showed up because they thought they were being fed), Oz caught sight of Anderson amongst Vilhelmina's crowd, hunched over and laughing as three cats attempted to scale him; one on his knee, one dangling from his arm, and the last climbing his back to his shoulder.

"Andy!" Oz called cheerfully, waving one of his silk-gloved hands. His brother turned, and upon seeing him, started so fast that the cats each slid off with a hiss. He scrambled upwards again, brushing himself off and desperately appearing to try to compose himself, before taking hurried and deliberate strides towards one of the branching paths in the opposite direction. "An_dy!" _Oz called again, concerned, as his brother disappeared behind a rose hedge.

"He's going to get lost in there."

Eyebrow raised upwards and biting his lip in a worried pout, Oz still managed to be unsurprised at Vil's sudden appearance at his side.

"You'll be very concerned to know that I got some _very_ good stories out of him," the albino bragged, obviously attempting to engage in their trademark banter.

But Oz had bigger concerns. "That's nice," he said distractedly, still staring at the hedges Anderson had disappeared into. He broke his stare to turn to her. "Did something happen on the tour?"

"…what do you mean?"

"Well, Vil, my brother's weird," Oz waved his hand towards the rose bushes, "and as a weird person who does things in a weird way, Andy has no poker face. In fact, that _was_ his poker face, terrible as it is. Which begs the question of what he thinks he's up to."

"No idea," she replied, her tone still light as she too gazed over at the hedgerows. "He wasn't part of my tour—I only began seeing him nearby around Kharon Bridge."

"I thought you said you got good stories out of him?"

"Gods, you take all the fun out of needling you sometimes." There was a yowling from behind them and their eyes jumped to the black cat that sat between them, claws out and attempting to snatch at Oz's oxford shoelaces.

A few feet away in the same direction was Hedia, who caught Oz's eye and pointed over at Vilhelmina's flower tour, gesturing with a single nod of the head in its direction and a questioning look in her eye. He nodded back, just glad she had gone with him this far.

"Well," Oz turned back to Vilhelmina conversationally, simultaneously backing out of the range of the black cat's lace-catching claws, "I've got a tour to continue, and shoes to save from the wrath of your yandere cat friend."

Vilhelima huffed at him and he grinned, spinning on his heels and returning to his group.

It always took some time to pry everyone away from the cats, particularly the children. As he got the majority's attention and led them out of the cover of the orchard slowly, waiting for some of the lagging members to stop cooing over a large group of smaller cats, Oz shared a story with some of the people near the front about a six-year-old who'd tried to smuggle a kitten out in her mother's purse the week before. "Of course the downfall was that the mother noticed."

"Which one?" Someone asked. "The kitten's or her own?"

"Both." The group chuckled good-naturedly. "Also, those with cameras probably want to get them out. We're heading towards our tour's end, but there's a pretty good view of the house around the corner."

Leaving the orchard and cat sanctuary behind, the group came out by the shore on the opposite side of the lake from Lamontre, which was perched on a tall hill and silhouetted dramatically against a late afternoon cornflower sky.

"This bridge isn't authentic to the estate," Oz said once the group had begun moving again, heading for the only constant passage from the lakeshore to the island. "Kharon Bridge was added when the museum was first established, because it was too difficult to constantly maintain service boats and they didn't have the money yet to routinely run the ferry—that came later. Still, before the ferry was put in, it was used for funeral processions as much as tours."

The bridge was painted red and gold and had crystal globe lamps on every railing post, though guests almost never saw them on. At the end was a small island, its grass and shady trees nearly blue in the shadows from the angle of the sun and only distinct from the water surrounding it by the lake's steely grey surface sheen. Small marble statuaries and posts speckled this otherwise unbroken swath of verdigris, some larger than others, and in the shadows of the tallest group of trees stood a marble mausoleum.

"The Lake is fed by the river Massalia and five streams, the Atlantique, the Pacifique, the Indien, the Artique, the Austral. It empties into the Polissonnerie River over to our left—however, I would recommend avoiding that part of the lake, should you and your family feel like finding your own way back to the house at the end of our tour. The river is deceptively thin and the boulders make it appear shallow, but the current is so swift underneath the surface that no proper measurements have been done on how deep the Polissonerie actually is and there have been many fatal accidents involving people trying to jump the Polissonerie at its narrowest point and never coming back up. So seriously, everyone—don't try anything."*

The island cemetery wasn't quite empty when their feet reached solid ground again. The estate's schedule was in between ferry shifts, so a small crowd of tourists meandered about, unaffiliated with their own walking tour, taking pictures of old worn monuments and tombstones. Two older women posed for a picture in front of Xavier Vessalius' great stone mausoleum. A small child was darting between the legs of adults, chasing a family of ducks that were scurrying back to the water. An unusual murmur had developed around a family of three standing in front of a small stone close to a patch of pink verbenas, where he knew the grave of Ada Vessalius to be.

"Here's where we stop, folks!" Oz called cheerfully, turning his back on the actual cemetery to face the group arriving off the bridge. "This is the end of the tour, the Cemetery Isle of Élysée. Consecrated in 1825, the Isle serves to this day as the burial place of Vessalius descendants should they choose to use it—although there aren't many, and the most recent burial was over a decade ago." And hadn't that been the event, coming back here for his grandfather's funeral when his mind hadn't even figured out where it was just yet. "The most notable individuals buried here are, of course, the Family Heads, laid to rest behind me to the right. These include historical figures I know you've all heard mention of a hundred times just on my own tour; the Heads of family, Dukes Roch, Xavier, Ambrose, Oscar, and Duchess Ada; their spouses, children, cousins, and even servants. Anyone considered of the Vessalius clan was eligible to be buried here. One notable exception, of course, is Queen Josephine, whose remains now rest in the royal plot at Chaire-Étage. But everyone else we've spoken of on our tour is here to visit and photograph. When you're ready to leave, you can take a walk back across the bridge and through the garden path, or you can wait here for the ferry, which should be here at around four o'clock. I'll stick around for a few minutes to answer any questions you have, but other than that, you guys are free to go."

A few people came up to thank him as the crowd dispersed, and several asked questions about the locations of particular graves, but surprisingly, no one really had any lengthy questions for him today. Unwilling to walk the three miles back to the house, Oz spent his time waiting for the ferry dawdling around between the tomb stones, a melancholy in his step as he passed the graves of Rachelle, Sarah, Zai, and Oscar Vessalius.

Rachelle's and Sarah's were proper headstones, though one was far more decorated than the other. Both stones were of expensive high-quality marble and bore the Vessalius crest of two wings framing a crown, theirs wrapped in speedwell flowers. The only difference between them was that beneath Sarah's crest was a boat filled with roses being cut by shears. Next to her's was a small headstone, half the size of Sarah's own, with a simplified crest of two overlapping wings replacing the regal formal one, decorated with daisies and topped with the small carving of a lamb.

When he reached the next two graves, he paused.

It is an unreal feeling—to remember the warmth and the touch of a man, however jumbled and misconfigured the memories, and realize you are standing on top of his bones; that directly beneath your feet is a femur who wore shoes like yours or a humerus that you used to swing off of as a child whenever you would conspire with others to tackle him, or he simply tackled you.

Just as in life, the two beneath his feet could not be more different; Zai's ordinary tombstone was plain and sparsely decorated, largely due to the fact that his body had not been recovered for some time, and thus the tombstone was not put in place by Ada but by some faceless individual with no connection to the man they placed in the ground but second-hand loathing. It bore no family coat of arms, as no one during the war particularly cared much for using money better spent elsewhere to add it. It bore only a name, and a tentative date: _Here Lies the Body of Zai Vessalius, born the Twenty-Ninth of May in the year 1851, died March of 1900 in his Forty-Ninth year._ There was no endearing epitaph, no clues as to who exactly Zai Vessalius was or had been—not even his two middle names, which were customary for every member of nobility.

Oz was not certain how he felt about this.

But Ada had outdone herself on the two graves she_ did_ install into the cemetery; his Uncle's tomb, a large, coffin-shaped work of marble, was marked with the formal version of the Vessalius Coat of Arms; a pair of intersecting golden wings enveloping a crown bedecked with two more wings. Each tombcrest was personalized for every family member; while Sarah's and Rachelle's had speedwell blossoms, Oscar's was intertwined with carvings of Clematis Virginia and magnolia and ringed around a heart. Below the crest, many figures and angels paid their respects. Ada herself and a young Father Time, cloaked and carrying his clock and scythe, were the closest of them, and knelt before Oscar's name making signs of blessing with their hands.

It had been a subject of scholarly debate, the reoccurrence of the supposed Father Time in Ada's creations. Even more so her depiction of him as such a youthful figure when he was more often portrayed as old and wizened. She was surprisingly symbolic in her choices of decoration; each depiction had more than one meaning. Oz knew, of course, that the figure was not Father Time. But Ada had been cleverer than anyone of the time had given her credit for, and hidden bare and obvious truths in plain sight and stone, esoteric to anyone who did not know Ada and her family.

Perhaps the best example of this was the gravemarker she had erected for _him_. Oz moved past his father's and uncle's tombs and paused contemplatively before the obelisk marker dedicated to Oz Vessalius, whose body had never and would never be buried. A photographer next to him was taking close ups of the details, and made to shoo him out of the picture before widening his eyes. Hurriedly, Oz turned away, hoping to avoid posing for a picture in front of his own cenotaph while struggling not to step on any of the pink and white tulips that surrounded the marker. The man huffed in disappointment before raising the camera back to his eye and returning his attention to the obelisk.

The small monument _was_ a thing of beauty, but again, Oz wasn't sure how he felt about it. When he'd first come through there to observe Vilhelmina's tour as part of his job training, he'd had to leave the group for a good fifteen minutes just to get off the island fast enough. It was, like his uncle's, filled with symbolic language that was all too clear for him, all too personal, and yet all too alien and uncomfortable, as Ada's view of him just after his death was expressed—and perhaps relieved—through her commissioned stone.

It was a single sun-colored obelisk, six or seven feet tall, topped with a small rutilated quartz angel cloaked in ruby, holding an onyx chain and golden key. The obelisk itself was carved with the Vessalius crest: the same two golden wings enclosing a crown as that on his uncle's tomb. This crown in particular was surrounded by a garland and intertwined with rose buds and dogwood flowers. On the lowest point of the garland rested a sleeping rabbit, framed from behind by a crossing arrow and scythe, and the inscription: _Knowe thy Tomb is Empty_.

At the base was a small stone platform, upon which was a carving of an open book, which bore his name and the dates of his supposed birth and death. The book's pages were edged with broken rose buds, and the name of the deceased was ringed with a garland of bellflowers and sweet pea blossoms—not that he could currently see them, as (as always) there were bouquets and trinkets laid out across the stone, offerings not to a deceased child but to a mythologized caricature, and as he watched, the photographer's place was taken by three teenage girls and a selfie stick.

It was so grand, so outlandish, so different from the others. He knew where some of the symbols came from (ancient mythologies, occult knowledge, the sheer need to express grief in some constructive fashion), but the fact that Ada even used such figurative language was a loss to him. At once it both explained the many strange books he'd inherited from her through his Aunt Patrice and made him confront the fact that he'd never gotten to know the person his sister became, however much he'd loved her.

And she herself was there, an unknowable sink of affection and confusion, the headstone above her a whole sixty years younger than his own.

And he'd thought missing _ten_ was bad.

Hers was far more like their uncle's than anything else; in fact, despite the decades between them, they were thematically a match set. Two golden wings intersected above the name, with an oak leaf in the middle where the crown would have been. Beneath it was an old woman, smiling peacefully with her eyes closed, facing and grasping both hands with the young Father Time.

Underneath where the two pairs of hands met was a slip of paper tied to a fresh bouquet. He knelt down, picked up the paper, unfolded and read the note, and froze.

The chill of the earth staining his shins, the damp of the grass marking his knees, and the humming buzz of people around him were all but lost for what was somewhere between an eternity and a millisecond.

"—and, Dear—dear, are you oh-kay?"

A woman grasped his shoulder—one of the elder women he'd seen taking photos in front of the mausoleum. Her lined face was stretched long in concern, small eyes dark and fixed.

"I…I—" Oz wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "I just..." He stood up quickly, adrenaline shooting through him, and he let out a noise between a sob and an ecstatic giggle. "That _stupid—_I… I gotta go!_" _He let out a more genuine laugh. "That _loser!_"

Oz took off running for the bridge, the note, bouquet, and crowd of concerned adults left behind.

"Is that boy going to be okay?"

"What in the heavens _happened _to the kid?"

The old woman who'd gotten his attention bent her knees and reached down to pick up the note. She scanned it with her eyes, growing only more confused. "I don' get it," she mumbled. "Who'd be takin' care of her brother?"

"What?"

"_Char_lotte, _dahr_lin, let me read it. That grave's half a century old, nobody'd be writin' notes; the family's dead."

"Look, Patsy, it says _their _brother."

"Did this get on the wrong grave?"

* * *

Anderson was back at the Cat Sanctuary when he was tackled.

"Oh—wha—OZ! Get OFF!" To his bewildered mortification, the fabric covering his back seemed to be getting wet.

Oz's reply was muffled by his shirt, and it seemed to be shaking. "Andy, you're such a..."

Anderson couldn't make out what he said, but it didn't stop him from shooting back. "Well _you're_ a _shorty_!" He exclaimed, confusion and worry defaulting to aggravation. "A _weird_ shorty!"

His little brother hugged him tighter.

* * *

The group reconvened on the ferry—Hedia and Oz had biked the trip, while Anderson had arrived by bus in an attempt to go unnoticed, so he ended up smugly beating them to the docks. When she first found them again back at the estate, Oz had been unusually quiet and teary-eyed, but now they were bickering more than they had in weeks, Hedia noticed—though honestly, it was all much lighter and happier than it had been in _months_.

"Break it up, boys," she droned, interrupting a gleeful Oz ribbing an aggressively bashful Anderson about someone he'd met at Uni, "Don't one of you have to call your parents?"

"Shorty will." Anderson decided, glaring at Oz as if daring him to object.

"Great!" Oz cheered, leering mischievously and whipping out his phone from his backpack. Punching a single digit on speed dial, the phone began a series of escalating beeps. "I'm sure mom would _love_ to hear about—what's their name~?"

"**_Don't you dare!" _**Anderson made a grab for the phone, but a voice came through before he could.

"_Hello? Bud?"_

"Hey Dad~" Oz said, smirking and wiggling his eyebrows at his brother as Anderson immediately backed off. "Just calling to tell you all that we're almost home. We're just going to stop at Casimir's before that and pick up ice cream, if anybody at home wants any."

Hedia, leaning over his shoulder, silently held out her hand.

"Uh, Dad? Hedia wants to speak with you." He passed the phone over.

"Mr. Tale, I would like to request permission to spend the night. I'm sorry for not informing you earlier, but I promised to show Gilbert some videos we made."

Oz's russet eyes suddenly widened and he shot Anderson a worried look, which was met initially with confusion and slowly with dawning alarm.

"_Uh, I'm not—you know, yeah, you can come. You and Gilbert can hang out in my office, it's not on the same floor as… Just, Oz may not be able to spend a lot of time with you. There's some things that need to be dealt with first."_

"I understand. Thank you." She returned the phone to Oz without another word.

"_Uh, by the brief silence, I'm assuming she gave the phone back?"_

"Yeah, it's me, Dad."

"_Good. We need you to return immediately, bud—Edith blew up at Elaine outside the courthouse and locked herself in her room when we got back. She's only letting Gilbert in right now, and frankly, the poor guy needs a break."_

Oz inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly through his mouth. _"Ooooh _boy…"

It seems like they would be returning home to another warzone.

* * *

_AN: Anderson is master of awkward corny moments. He brings it on himself, what with his flower symbolism and musical expression and note writing to dead people he doesn't know. And the truth is out. Trolling is how Oz expresses brotherly love. Andy is basically a Gilbert that continues to try to fight the tide._

_There's structurally a deliberate parallel between this visit to Lamontre and the last visit. The last visit helped begin Anderson's emotional acceptance of Oz, and this one concludes it. Also, both end in Edith's issues coming to roost again—only one is, well, the direct response to the events of the other, in terms of what's going on with her. Oh boy._

_(Richard's letting Hedia stay for the night because he hopes she can help Gilbert relaxed and the two of them can stay away from what's going on a floor above them. He's going to regret this)._

_Details:_

_*Unless the Vessalius planned to give the gazebo and the land it stood on to the House of Sibylle, they couldn't make a gazebo for them, because that would be symbolically claiming that the Vessalius now had authority on par with Royalty. And while the Vessalius (as well as the other Dukedomes) actually had more power than the Royal Family at the time, that's a horrible faux pas to make because everyone—including the Vessalius—were busy pretending that the Vessalius didn't in the eye of the public. After all, you don't broadcast that your King's a puppet, especially if he is._

_*The Strid. It's basically the Strid. Long may it terrorize._

_Bonus Details: Grave Symbolism_

_Victorian graves have their own system of symbolism, completely different from other symbol systems of the Victorian era. I'm not going to go over every tombstone included in this chapter - that would be _ridiculous - _but there are some finer points that have a lot of meaning, especially in Oz's, which is described in the most detail. And going over Oz's gives a good insight into the thought processes behind the others. Much of the symbols Ada chooses have double meanings - she cleverly picked common symbols regularly used in funerary art to communicate and disguise the hints of what really happened to her brother. _

_Edit 4/27/17: Initially I had basically a whole dictionary here explaining my choices of Grave Symbols, but in favor of not being a complete windbag, I'll just let you look up the meanings of the symbols Ada chose yourselves. __I'm particularly proud of having managed to make references to nearly every source of inspiration for Oz's character, with the Angel referencing the "Key of the Abyss" biblical verse, the rabbit referencing the Velveteen Rabbit, and the pictures referencing Father Time/the Grim Reaper, who inspired B-Rabbit's design and powers. __If you just want to cut to the chase and ask me about specific meanings or symbols directly, you can just message me or leave a review, and as always I'm happy with answering any questions you guys have, about this or anything else._


	24. Advance XXI: Bonus Podcast Special

Hey everybody! Are you ready for some lies, fictional politics, horrifying disasters, and historical propaganda? I hope so, because that's like 900% what Jack is made of.

Also, different speakers, different verbal ticks. Even though this episode is later in the fic than the previous, it's actually earlier in TYOHC's podcast archive than _The Murder(?) of Oz Vessalius—_so this episode is actually narrated by Johanna and Ike, the podcast's previous hosts, who were mentioned briefly in _The Murder Of Oz_'s episode's introduction_. _At least I won't have to write Cicile's "yeah" over and over again. Though admittedly, Kristen and Cecile are a lot more conversational than Johanna and Ike, whose style of podcasting is far more scripted... until one of them gets sleepy. Verbal ticks, am I right?

Also, I spent a lot of time frantically floundering between established canon and what could possibly be considered feasible in the timeline.

* * *

**_Things You Overlooked in History Class, Episode 51: A Jack, a Glen, and the Tragedy of Sablier_**

"_Welcome to _Things You Overlooked in History Class from_ whythingsdostuff. com. Hello and welcome to the podcast, I'm Johanna Glazier."_

_"And I'm Ike Rhee. And I'd like to apologize for the small break we took since our episode on the archaeological digs in Deshret—I spent most of the break watching my sister's kids while she was in the hospital. No worries, though—she's fine. She just had a bit of an accident with a lawn mower."_

_"Eugh. Well, I'm sure we all hope she recovers quickly."_

_"Thanks. Well, changing topics, today's podcast isn't actually a subject many people would have overlooked in a history class. If you were even slightly conscious during any history lesson involving the Dukian Era, you've probably heard of the Tragedy of Sablier. However, it's still one of our most widely requested topics and, admittedly, it's a topic many shy away from discussing due to how all-encompassing, convoluted, controversial, and largely unexplained the whole event still is."_

_"We didn't realize that when we put off doing an episode on this. But after some searching, it became clear that, despite this being a very, __very__ well known event, no one on the internet has really done an in depth rundown on this topic—and most of the information that's out there is contradictory speculation. After that, this topic got put back on our to-do list."_

_"It's understandable it would be shied away from, though—this was such a linchpin event, we could probably spend the next four podcasts just going over the immediate and delayed effects this thing had on the world. So, for the sake of all our audiences, we'll try to do a general overview of what we know, start at the very basics, and work our way from there." _

_"The Tragedy of Sablier was a large-scale catastrophe that is considered to have begun on September 24__th__, 1792, at 10:34 in the morning, as documented by newly-established local seismograph stations in Reveille and Carillon in Sable and supported by similar stations as far away as Ostene in Idvitz and Leshoylor in the Lucyan Empire. By the time it had ended roughly eight hours later, the capital of Sable was an unexplainable crater and most of the country's ruling class were dead._

_"Now, with most disasters on this podcast, there's usually some major expositional red flags that pop up in hindsight to—at least_ sort_ of__—explain what led to the event. But while there are some that explain __part__ of the Tragedy, there's still much that, to this day, many don't understand."_

_"But to even __try __understanding the context of this horrible event and the full effect it had on Sable and the world, we have to go back a while. So let us set the stage: _

_"It's the late 1780s, the last decade of the Bochetian Era, a time of intellectual and philosophical triumphs. The greatest minds of the age are splitting at the seams with constructive criticism towards the monarchy, the government, and the economy—but unlike many other movements before and after, it's a relatively peaceful, nonviolent kind of criticism. Sable is in a time of stagnation, as was believed then—popular perception was that things had stayed the same too long, and had ceased improving. Though no one had started to claim the aristocracy was unnecessary—that would come a century later, with the revolutionary Intransigence Movement—the lower classes were still chafing at their bindings, and there was a desire to find a logical way to fix many of the large societal problems that had always been there but were slowly beginning to grow__—__especially poverty and famine, which would increase greatly in the years leading up to the Tragedy."_

_"But there is a kind of leering suspicion growing between the classes, especially directed at the prominent family which gives the period its name, the Baskerville family. Ever since antiquity, the Baskerville family had been the Dukes of Toutes, the right hands of the monarchy and the second most powerful family in the Royaume de Sabletere, as Sable was then known. But the rise of constructive criticism towards authority figures and the systems of society led to the beginning of what we could call a… falling out, with the people of Sabletere._

_"There had been, for a while before this… rumors, shall we say, of some rather gruesome activities the Baskervilles supposedly took part in. Allegedly, the Baskervilles were a magic-practicing clan of the negative sort, and popular belief was that they got away with their crimes by holding their power over the monarchy to force leniency. And despite historians doing their best to puzzle out the family's history in a nonbiased manner, there are still a terrifying number of irrefutably suspicious disappearances in their family history."_

_"And it doesn't help, Ike, that their family history is… muddy at best."_

_"Certainly doesn't—even today, no one is quite certain how the Baskerville lineage actually worked. The majority of the members seem to have been adopted, but no dates are available for these adoptions. Family members just seem to appear and disappear from the record with no clear birth or death dates."_

_"Most suspicious among these disappearances are the so-called 'Children of Misfortune,' individuals that superstition held were curses who were followed by tragedy no matter where they went due to their red eyes—and of the mysterious adoptions and disappearances within the Baskerville family, almost half of them were these 'Children.' In fact, a Sourealen noble—Thau Mazeem, 7__th__ Earl of Apror—once accused the family of sacrificially murdering its own members—and, in equally suspicious fashion, he himself disappeared from his guest quarters while staying with Raymond Nightray, the Marquis of Finstergüt, the night before he was to return to his family's estate in Gocheburg. After much hounding by the Kingdom of Soureales, parliament finally admitted he was likely dead and declared him __deceased __in absentia…__ in 1793, a whole nine __years later."_

_"Dukian folklorist Sobel __Burgoyne* __counters these supposedly prominent pre-Tragedy rumors in his book, _The Disillusion of an Age_, and suggests that no one had really been suspicious of the Baskervilles in spite of these sinister details—at least, not before the Tragedy of Sablier—and even Thau Mazeem's alarming claims had gone ignored until after the fact. Burgoyne hypothesizes that these facts and suspicions gained widespread acknowledgement and attention only after the Tragedy as a way of coping with the completely unexpected horror and trauma that the previously impeccable 'right hands' of the Royal Family had dealt their own capital city._

_"But regardless of whether anyone was suspicious of the Baskervilles' activities or not, they weren't the most easily likable family. They may or may not have been committing human sacrifice, but they were still highly secretive." _

_"So it may be hard to believe these baleful individuals got along with anybody, but in fact, they did—and tragically, one of their up-and-coming best allies on the eve of the Tragedy was Jack Vessalius, a Viscount who seemed to have struck up a friendship with the newly instated Duke of Toutes, Glen Oswald, who rose to power only a year and a half before the Tragedy occurred."_

_"A slight aside, but every Duke of Toutes gained the first name __Glen__ upon inheriting the title—so each of them actually had two first names. The Duke before Glen Oswald, for example, was Glen Levi, and the one before that, Glen Kahina.*"_

_"Back on track—if Jack Vessalius' name sounds familiar to you—well, it probably does for a number of reasons, most of which we'll be covering as we continue on this episode. Historically, his relationship with Glen Oswald was not his most important feature, but it is what inspired E. L. Webber's magnum opus, _Le Foncé Cillement Lumiere, _and as fans of the famous tragicomedy know, Jack Vessalius is the person who __killed__ Glen Oswald."*_

_"We don't actually know much about what led up to their falling out—or indeed, much of what initially inspired their friendship. In his play, Webber portrays the Duke of Toutes as a deeply haunted, tragic antihero, who cannot in good conscience live with the horrific acts his family has committed against the Children of Misfortune, let alone lead them in perpetuating them—yet, at the same time, cannot abandon his social post and duty, a sadistic position that eventually degrades his sanity and concludes with him considering _all_ life a curse of misfortune. And while this makes for a deeply fascinating character—and actually, I did my high school Literature Studies paper on the psychology of Webber's Glen Oswald—the fact of the matter is, this interpretation takes for granted a lot of the messy rumors surrounding the family as fact, something we as historians should take into account but never mistake for actual historical truth. The fact is, we just don't know enough about these people to say for sure __what__ their motives were."_

_"The only window we actually have into the Baskervilles as people is the published memoirs of Jack Vessalius, which were written by dictation with the help of Arthur Barma, first Duke of Paondronte, as by that time, Jack's health was fading from the aftereffects of the Tragedy and he no longer had the strength to write himself. _

_"Supposedly, Arthur Barma also wrote a book of his __own__ memoirs—the Barma family lists it among their collection in several of their own archive records throughout the 19__th__ century—however, the book was said to have been badly damaged in the Tragedy of Reveille in 1900, and if anything remained of it, it was likely destroyed in the fire set to Chenille Estate during the Revolution of 1901. This is considered a tragedy in its own right by historians, as very little is known of the contents of Arthur Barma's memoirs, and this limits our understanding of the Baskerville's actions during the Tragedy to one first person account. To make matters worse, even Jack's memoirs had sections that were expunged or censored by the time they hit the printing press—and after the Revolution, it became clear that these had to do with the mysterious organization Pandora. Though we're getting ahead of ourselves again—__that's __for another podcast entirely."_

_"What we're trying to make clear here is: part of the reason why no one fully understands the Tragedy of Sablier is that, with the exception of Jack Vessalius, the only survivors were people on the outskirts of the city who managed to turn and escape the city before it sank—and subsequently, before they saw anything besides earthquake damage. This means that there are actually very little testimony or solid, established facts surrounding the Tragedy; merely the subjective recollections and opinions of one man."_

_"But speaking of that man; the Vessalius family wasn't particularly prominent previous to the Tragedy, though it had been rising in influence. The head of the family, Mortemer Vessalius, the Comte de __Partir D'Ombre, acted as the leading family in the village of Ombre, just to the south of Sablier, but the village was small and the family largely impoverished. Ironically, the family member that began bringing fortune to their name again wasn't even initially considered a family member; Jack was the illegitimate son of Mortemer and his off-and-on mistress Marie Larue, whom he frequented when in the capital during the social season. When the Comte found she was with child, he broke all ties with her, and only accepted their son into his family after discovering that Jack had managed to acquire a large amount of wealth via wise investments. Probably to ease bad feelings, he granted Jack the title of Viscount—not that it appears to have been necessary. From all accounts—and even from his own memoirs—Jack seems to have been a cheerful, carefree, if lackadaisical individual in his youth; not at all the type to hold grudges."_

"_Honestly, we could probably do another whole podcast just on Jack Vessalius and his pre-Tragedy life—it's a real rags-to-riches, happy feel-good story. Well, until Glen Oswald comes in."*_

"_We know that Oswald Baskerville and the Viscount Jack Vessalius initially crossed paths before Oswald inherited his Dukedom, and they made a fast friendship. It's during this part of Jack's memoirs that we see a bit of the humanity underneath this secretive façade of the Baskervilles. Jack describes Glen Levi, the then-Duke, as a mischievous and curious Renaissance man, a man very much interested in promoting the arts and sciences and always eager to question the status quo. Beneath him was Oswald Baskerville, the Marquis de Vide, Jack's quiet and stoic friend and companion—and Jack even playfully chides him in the narrative about his lack of emotional intelligence, as apparently the man was terrible at socializing and Jack actually had to cover for his social gaffes more than once. Beneath the Duke and the Marquis were the subservient Lords and Ladies of the House Baskerville; Charlotte, an uptight sisterly woman Jack apparently enjoyed teasing; Fang, a warm man Jack expresses regrets over not knowing better; Dug, a serious and servile individual who spoke even less than Oswald; Celia, a woman Jack saw but never interacted with; and Lily, a little girl the family had recently taken in. _

"_There are also brief mentions of a woman named Lacie, mostly in relation to Oswald, but she only appears in a few paragraphs.* However, the allegation the memoirs present__—__that Oswald kept her and her children under lock and key in a tower on the grounds of his manor—_kind_ of ruins the otherwise sympathetic and heartbroken feelings for them that Jack manages to convey to the reader through his memoirs. Particularly since a girl named Lacie was one of the adopted 'Children of Misfortune' who suspiciously vanished from the record books."_

"_What we're basically trying to say is, whether or not they actually committed human sacrifice, they were a pretty _sketch_ family. They certainly weren't the unfeeling monsters that post-Tragedy media and folklore would have us assume, but at the same time, there's enough suspicious stuff there that, were they living in the present, social services would definitely be investigating them."_

"_And Jack seems to share this opinion; throughout his memoirs, he seems to flip-flop between fixating on the crimes committed by the Baskervilles and trying to deny these same horrific events by focusing on their sympathetic qualities and the pleasant memories he had with them—it's clear that even while dictating the record of what happened between them, Jack was having his own issues trying to come to terms with the situation."_

"_But even Jack's sympathetic words can't hide the fact that things had begun to go wrong, even before the Tragedy. Oswald began to act more erratic around Jack, to the point where, in May of 1791, they even got into a shouting match. For once, we actually know what this shouting match was about—visiting dignitaries overheard it from the garden—and apparently, Jack and Glen Oswald had gotten into an argument over the whereabouts of the woman Lacie, who had disappeared. While Jack is hesitant to truly describe what happened during the conflict, his memoirs still imply that it got physical, and he was shaken up badly enough afterwards to begin actively avoiding Glen Oswald at social events. They do reconcile eventually, but in the weeks between then Jack began spending time welcoming the Barmas, a noble refugee family from a political skirmish in the Empire of Lucya."_

"_Things had begun to calm down in the summer of 1792—Glen Oswald and Jack's friendship seems to have been repaired, though there was still a bit of hesitance between them. Jack was even able to cordially introduce the Barmas to Glen Oswald, something that helped the foreign family's acceptance into Sableteren upper society. A lot of this was likely because Jack was responsible for finding the newly-minted Gilbert Baskerville, the boy Glen Oswald decided to adopt as his heir, and the child was apparently very fond of Jack—enough to invite him to his formal recognition ceremony."_

"_And then, out of seemingly nowhere, it all came crashing down, both for these two supposed friends and for the city. The disaster began with the violent earthquakes picked up by the seismographs at 10:34 AM, just the first tremors of which buckled most of Marché Street, desecrated Sibylle Square, and collapsed the main entrance to the Baskerville's estate. Having been in the middle of their young Heir's ceremony, most of upper society was present on the estate's grounds that day, including King Diodore__, his wife, Queen Athénaïs, and two of their five children, Prince Armand and Prince Thierry. Their daughter, Princess Pétronille, was ill with a Type V Scunthorpe infection and was staying in a country house for her health, and the other two sons, Princes Fiacre and Adrien, were deemed too young to attend, and so all three survived."_

"_As the tremors continued and grew worse, the ground began to subside in many parts of the city, and those who could flee did so. First person accounts describe horrible, _horrible_ scenes, even just from the earthquakes—entire streets of buildings on their sides like fallen dominos; wells, dams, canals and sewage mains bursting and carrying away people in sudden floods; sink holes appearing and swallowing whole blocks faster than fleeing citizens could escape; and fires breaking out and blocking entire sections of the city from evacuating. It scarred survivors so badly that folkloric claims of monsters roaming the streets were not uncommon._

"_But the worst and probably most infamous aspect of this cataclysm was the Baskerville's actions during this. After the tremors started, the Baskervilles and their servants left their guests in the estate's ceremony hall—Jack Vessalius included—only to return, weapons in hand, and start slaughtering their guests. Baskervilles and Baskerville servants spread through the city; some remaining in the estate and the rest taking to the streets and killing all they came across. According to his memoirs, Jack fled the ceremony hall in terror and began searching for Glen Oswald, hoping that his friend would help stop his deranged servants—only to realize, as he was forced to find weapons and defend himself, that the servants were simply obeying Glen Oswald's orders. Jack's goal changed from merely finding him to killing him, and in the underground chambers of the Baskerville Estate, he and Glen Oswald infamously fought to the death." _

"_Jack was found the next day, the only recovered survivor amongst all the rubble and ruin at the bottom of the sinkhole that had taken the place of the proud city of Sablier. He was transported to his family's second home in Jouet to recover from his injuries, as Orlueur was deemed too close to Sablier to be safe. _

"_By the time he woke up three days later, the country was in shambles—and not just Sabletere; quakes and damage had been recorded as far as the Eastern shore of Euphania, and the Criwan volcano Mount Adrana experienced such tectonic duress that it ended its 3500 year dormancy and blew 612,000,000 tons of debris out of its main vent._

"_The world spent the next year essentially shell-shocked—and nowhere was it worse than in Sable, a country which had lost its government, royal family, capital city, and the majority of its aristocracy."_

"_But unlike the stunned horror the rest of the world appeared to be in, Jack Vessalius seemed to have rekindled his will. Though his health continued to wane, Jack set to work devising strategies to reinstate governmental control and reconsolidate power with the Crown. As it was, the oldest surviving male child—Prince Fiacre—should have been declared King with a Regent put in charge until he was of age, but little was being done to push this forwards as most of the heads of the noble houses—whose duty it was to decide these things—were dead, and what was left was a collection of lesser nobles and important heirs who were—as Jack watched—walking all over the young should-be king." _

"_Meanwhile, on the streets, the law had broken down. Much of the major cities' populations were homeless and scavenging for their very survival—and those that weren't fled the cities for more rural areas in fear that looters would take what little they had left or take their lives to procure this. Violent crime skyrocketed, the cities were emptying of all but the poorest or most dangerous people, and the country itself was quickly devolving into anarchy._

"_Jack went to work contacting the high-ranking survivors he knew of, and in particular, he contacted Shirley Rainsworth, then the Marchioness of Baiebrilla, an old but rarely politically involved clan of matriarchal nobles who themselves were distantly related to the royal family, but whom Jack never actually had contact with before. In his letters to the Marchioness—which we still have in the National Archives—Jack explained his emergency plan and pled with her to take on the position of Regent for the sake of the country and for the young King Fiacre._

"_The Marchioness agreed to the post, arranged for the care of the remaining royal children, and, with Kingling Fiacre's agreement, officiated the acting capital, the city of Reveille, as the new capital__. Immediately after, Jack sought an audience with the Lady Regent and her charge, during which he proposed what we now refer to as the Quadrant System. He pointed out in his audience with the two rulers that the main issue facing the country was not the damage, though that was significant; rather, it was that there was no longer a system in place to deal with the damage and maintain order, as those that had been in place have been completely wiped out. Rather than having one single Great Dukedom monopolizing power as the King's right hand, Jack suggested creating four smaller Dukedoms that could better help regulate and provide for specific areas, as well as politically keep each other in check. This concept is the originating point for Sable's modern governmental structure today, dividing the country into four provinces—Nuitkaiser, Paondronte, Camomille, and Flambeau, each of which was originally a Dukedom when first conceived, and each of which intersects at Sablier as a symbolic gesture of respect for the country's loss."_

"_As a reward for his quick thinking and loyalty to the crown, Jack was made Royal Advisor, and was granted rule of the southern Dukedom of Flambeau by the Kingling Fiacre—though he immediately abdicated in favor of his eldest half-brother Roch, as Jack was aware by then that his health was failing fast. Instead of taking the post, Jack suggested to the Lady Regent and young King Fiacre three others that might do just as good a job if not better—Arthur Barma, who was a brilliant archivist and organizer; Shirley Rainsworth herself, once she stepped down from the Regency; and Raymond Nightray, whom Jack assured had nothing to do with the Baskerville's massacre, despite the rumors—although there are historians who believe that in doing this, Jack was really 'keeping his enemy closer,' as the saying goes._

"_It was a good thing that he set this all up so quickly, because Jack Vessalius died on November 11, 1794, only two years after the Tragedy that so defined his life. Like many important figures in history, he only lived long enough to see the very beginnings of the effects of his actions. Certainly Jack never foresaw the problems that would arise from the system he created—it did, after all, succeed in keeping the country and government together and political powers in check in their time of crisis—however, Jack's division of power is arguably one of the major contributing factors to the slow drain of authority from the monarchy over the following century, and the influence rivalries created between the Dukedoms he set up resulted in a great deal of corrupt political dealings and tensions between the classes, eventually leading to the creation of the Intransigence Movement and culminating in the Revolution of 1901. _

"_And so, cataclysmic disaster led to the complete reformation of Sable's governmental and political system, and the Tragedy of Sablier came to a close upon the dawning of a new political period, the Dukian Era." _

"_Unfortunately, Ike, there's still some gruesome threads of this story that we need to tie up. Investigations both public and private began almost immediately after the Tragedy as to what exactly happened with the Baskerville family. Though their main estate had plunged into the cavernous sinkhole that was now Sablier, a number of their properties still littered the country, which were searched thoroughly by mobs of civilians with… unpleasant results." _

"Indeed_, Johanna, that's… that's actually quite the understatement. _

"_Four of the seven properties searched contained what were obviously magical chambers of some sort, covered in magischematic circles of various designs. A number of these rooms contained human remains, either out in the open or in connecting antechambers. Accompanying these chambers were dungeons and prison blocks, again often containing human remains or, in two cases, live prisoners—though no research we did could confirm who these individuals were or what happened to them after their discovery._

_"A further look into the book collections, notes, records, and journals left in these minor estates revealed a rather disturbing picture. Most children nowadays know of the mythical location known as The Abyss—it's an old Sablen folkloric concept of the Underworld believed to have its roots with the tribes of antiquity that used to call Sable home three thousand years ago. The Baskervilles, however, seemed to have sincerely believed in this myth, and considered it their job to pass judgement on those who… I believe the phrase reportedly used in one of the tomes was 'endanger the sanctity of the Abyss.' 'Children of Misfortune,' in particular, were singled out as individuals to 'pass judgement upon' and 'eliminate as threats.'"_

_"Basically, there was a lot of evidence found to suggest that the Baskervilles were a delusional ritualistic murder cult. One that had a hand in ruling the country for _several hundred years._"_

_"This caused a __huge__ backlash against a lot of individuals, particularly Raymond Nightray, the new Duke of Nuitkaiser; despite Jack's rather… weak assurances as to his innocence, rumors were still flying about Raymond's connection to the Tragedy, and his long-time allegiance with the Baskervilles wasn't doing him any favors, considering what they were finding." _

_"The biggest backlash, though, was actually something positive. The resulting horror from these discoveries caused a wave of sympathy for the so-called Children of Misfortune, and combined with the new political climate in place, resulted in an upswing of tolerance towards individuals with red eyes. Within half a century, the stigma on them would be nearly nonexistent."*_

_"Of course, there are those who refuted the evidence retrieved from the Baskerville properties—there were a large number of 19__th__ century magiphiles who considered these documents to be planted by the hands of mismages, creating false evidence to associate the murderous Baskerville clan with magic to make __genuine__ magic practitioners look bad. There's really no proving this either way, though, as much of the purported evidence—the books, notes, and records purportedly recovered from the various Baskerville properties—do not survive to the present day, and it's unknown exactly what happened to them." _

_"The dungeons and human remains are still a confirmed thing, though. There were several Tombs of the Unknown erected at the various Baskerville estates around the country, so anthropological forensics teams have had the pick of the crop when confirming this." _

_"Not to mention that if one discards the possibility of the Baskervilles using magic, it's rather hard to explain the coincidence that is the Baskerville's massacre and the horrific natural disasters occurring simultaneously. Daniel Blain, Historian of Magic at Zoroaster University, has noted that a natural earthquake would hardly cause such widespread global damage and that the behavior of Sable's animals throughout the morning of September 24__th__ do not match up with what is usually noted prior to a __natural __disaster—most animals are far better at detecting such things than humans, and would have likely fled hours or even days in advance if the earthquakes and sinkholes that befell Sablier were of natural causes. _

_"So I guess we should apologize, listeners: at the end of it, we know what happened… sort of. But not why. This is probably the real reason it's difficult to discuss the Tragedy of Sablier—there's so much pointless suffering, and very few answers as to the hows and the whys. In the end, we can only speculate on the past, as many before us have and many after us will."_

_"That was… strangely profound."_

_"Yup. I'm wise when I'm tired."_

_"__Don't __sleep on the recording table!... Ahem. Regardless, listeners, we've pretty much reached the end for today. Tune in next week for our episode on Shirley Rainsworth and the Regency Period, or stick around for some listener mail!"_

* * *

AN: This chapter is 25% fact established by canon, 25% stuff made up by me, and 50% Jack's bullshit as processed by 200 years of people having no other sources of information. But the Baskervilles really didn't help themselves when it comes to PR, did they? I didn't even have to make up most of the bad stuff. The Baskervilles may not have been as bad as we initially thought (heck, they were even hero antagonists during Tragedy of Sablier), but they were still a pretty screwed up family.

And when the only explanation provided to the public is a bunch of lies, you get one-sided stuff like this as accepted history. You know what's scarier? Half of our genuine, real-world history is probably like this, because if you think you or the people around you are self-centered, subjective, and inaccurate in their perceptions of reality, imagine trying to create a linear cause and effect chain from the few remaining scraps of other people's subjective perceptions of reality. That is what we call history.

I realize that there's no mention in canon of Jack leaving his own memoirs of what happened—that's one of the reasons why he "confided his story" in Arthur, after all—but I think there must've been some other source for the idea that the Baskervilles were the cause of the Tragedy besides what Jack made Arthur write. That the Baskervilles caused the Tragedy of Sablier is a commonly-known "fact" in Pandora Hearts, despite Arthur Barma's book only being recently rediscovered by Rufus while Oz and the gang are at Sablier. Clearly, Arthur Barma's memoirs were a family heirloom, and not something that was read by many people. So how did this become common knowledge if there was only one surviving witness, unless that one witness spread it far and wide? I headcanon that Jack must've left other records, spread his lies other ways, and gotten Arthur to spread them after he was "dead," likely with the help of the Vessalius family who thought their brother Jack a genuine hero. The Vessalius would definitely go along with the idea of a mass publication if Jack left behind a "record" of his life—it would help validate the idea that they earned and deserved their new power, which hinged on the accepted legitimacy of Jack's "heroism," as their title was his reward. And with Jack Vessalius being so famous due to his involvement in the reformation of the government, of course people read the book, of course they believed what they read in the newspapers-of course they believed that the Vessalius were heroes. With all they were finding out about the Baskerville house—why wouldn't they?

That aside, Tragedy chronology is strange. Jack was around Oz's physical age when he first met Lacie, possibly slightly older, and according to the manga, he managed to track her down eight years later. But the Tragedy occurs when Jack is 24, meaning that he only knew the Baskervilles for anywhere from mere weeks to, at most, two years. That really puts what happened in perspective, because mentally I keep thinking all of this was longer than it was, simply because of how deep and intrinsic and long-lasting the effects of it all were. And considering Jack knew Lacie before she died, that makes Alice possibly _weeks_ old when she commits suicide, and at most the age of a small toddler. I mean, we all knew she wasn't the age she looked, because she appeared out of the Abyss days after her birth already looking like a five year old, but still. _Yikes._ So, my dates above claiming that Oswald became Glen a year and a half before the Tragedy is me being _generous_ with the timeline.

* Bochetian Era: the several hundred year period in which the Baskerville family dominated Sable's politics. It has also been used to denote the period in which Sable was known as the Royaume of Sabletere, a name it ceased to formally use after the kingdom was divided into four Dukedoms instead of one. "Bochetian" comes from the Anglo-Norman roots for the name Baskerville – bochet and ville, thicket and town.

*Name references Robert Sobel's alternative history book For Want of a Nail, in which the United States lost the Revolution and British General John Burgoyne became the Viceroy of the Confederation of North America, a semi-autonomous reorganization of the British North American colonies.

*Glen Kahina is a reference to the fanfiction The Book of Levi and Other Fantastic Fairy Tales, by tiniestdormouse. It can be found here on this website or on a tumblr account specifically dedicated to it, the-book-of-levi. It mainly explores the life of Levi Baskerville, his relationship with Lacie and Oswald, and his motivations for his desire to experiment with the Abyss. It does have some headcanons I don't fully accept myself, as the headcanons I've constructed for Beyond the Winding Road are slightly contradictory to it, but it's a beautiful read and I recommend it to anyone in the Pandora Hearts fandom!

*E.L. Webber is a reference to The Phantom of the Opera and the man who wrote the musical, Andrew Lloyd Webber.

*I laughed so hard while writing how Jack's childhood was a "rags-to-riches, happy feel-good story." So, so hard.

*There's a bunch of stuff missing, isn't there? After all, this is Jack's propaganda—and what wasn't left out by Jack was left out by his descendants when they published it, like the information about Pandora and the sealing stones.

*Mismage: Someone who is prejudiced against or has an irrational hatred for those who practice magic. From the Greek roots _mis,_ meaning hatred, and _magi,_ meaning magic.

*I can't be the only one wondering why people stopped persecuting Children of Misfortune in the hundred-year gap. All things considered, it probably had something to do with the absence of the Baskervilles—which leads to the implication that the Baskervilles played a key and active role in fueling and perpetuating their society-wide stigma and abuse, despite treating the ones in their care like family before executing them.


End file.
